Alien Shore
by P.L. Nunn
Summary: Part One: Logan, Rogue, Beast & Gambit get swept up in a scheme of Sabortooths
1. Default Chapter Title

    The wind blew in from the north like the frigid breath of death.  Itshowling tantrum disturbed powdery layers of new snow on the northern slopesof the Himalayas, blowing almost as much crystallized white through the crispair as the storm the night before had managed to dump in all its frenzy. The storm had traveled east, was more than likely plaguing Lhasa or somefurther eastern settlement by now.  It was a bad season to risk the highlands. The weather was treacherous and the passes indistinguiable from the raggedspine of the mountains themselves.  The natives knew better than to attemptthe high trails in the winter.  No sane Tibetian strayed so far from thesafety and warmth of his home when so many unforgiving blizzards prowledthe great range.  It was only the dread of something more terrible than naturethat might make a man brave the heights.  
    Creed had killed two of the small, brown skinned highlanders before theremaining guides had succumbed to the wisdom of following his commands.  Thatleft three of the rugged, wind toughened Tibetans to lead him west alongthe highest trails the grand old Himalayas had to offer.  He hadn't mindedthe slaughter.  The warmth of blood on his hands and the fever of the killserved to thaw the layer of ice this place had cast over him.  The kill alwaysheated the blood in his veins.  It made him hunger for more blood, for theeuphoric feel of his claw-like nails ripping into the soft flesh of prey. The feel of hot intestines oozing over his hands.  But, he held himselfback from finishing them all, even though they stared at him with hate anddisparity from their squinty, black eyes.  They thought he was a beast, amadman.  A creature that was only half a man; more an animal, an extinctand vicious brute who as soon kill them as endure their irritating presenceone moment longer.  
    But, he needed them. Creed needed guides, for as uniquely suited as hewas for the climate and the hardships of this land, he did not know the passesand the hidden trials and the ancient legends that passed from generationto generation among the Tibetan peoples, that hinted at the place he wantedto go.  The place he was being paid handsomely to find.  So he didn't killthem.    
    He stood staring up the steep, snow covered side of a mountain, snowblowing in his face, melting on his skin, with his parka open and his hoodback. His guides cowered behind him, bundled from head to foot in thick coatsand hoods, shivering in the frigid air.  Creed breathed it in, broad facealight with the challenge of one more great mountain to defeat.  Ice crystalsglinted in his blonde brows and hair, his breath made a thick fog of vaporbefore his face.  He made up two of his guides in size and weight and yetwhen he moved there was a powerful, feline grace about him.  There was abouthis features also something vaguely feline.  Not delicate like a small cat,but heavy and lethal like one of the great wild cats; or more liken to someextinct ancestor of the lion.  A sabortooth.  That, the movement, the coloring,the utter savagery of his attack with his claw like nails had gained himthe name more people knew him by than his given one.  Sabortooth.  In thecircles he moved in, it was a name to shiver at.    
    He snapped at his guides to move, and the small figures sidled past him,ponderously making their way up the slope through snow up past their knees. There was a trail up there, past this ridge that was hardly more than legend. He had it on good account that it was more than legend.  That it was thereand that it led to a place very few human beings now alive had ever visited. Not that any one would find great benefit from traveling all this way, throughall this miserable and cold terrain just to see a bunch of baldheaded, Tibetanmonks.  Only the man who was currently footing the none to small bills forthis jaunt would have any desire to collect something monks had coveted foryears, for himself.    
    'Course, Creed didn't much care why he wanted the artifact as long ashe got paid, and paid well.  And for trekking though this much snow and icehe was getting a bundle.    
    The incline sloped sharply upwards and Creed dug his boots in, walkingalmost vertical in his ascent.  The guides had roped themselves togetherand they were dark forms ahead, figures made hazy and indistinguishable bythe blown snow.  Creed refused the rope link.  He trusted his own abilitiesmore than the puny strength their human chain offered.  Snow trickled downfrom the track they had made.  There was a yelp up ahead and the lead manlost his footing as a sheet of snow gave way, sliding down the slope in acrumbling sheet of purest white.  When the lead man went he jerked the secondand third off their feet and they all went tumbling down, human flotsam mixedwith the snow.    
    Creed snarled in exasperation at their clumsiness and snagged a bit ofrope between the second and third climber and with it in hand leaped backout of the way of the disembarking snow.  Three men were jerked in his wake,as though their combined weight were a pittance.  Creed grunted, standingsplaylegged in the snow with his guides scattered about him, and glared atthe roughened area of slope as if it had done him some personal insult.    
    He called the guides foul names and jerked them up.  They climbed slowlyto their feet, sluggish from the tumble and the dread cold, muttering fearfullyamongst themselves.  He slapped one on the back of the head to get them moving,and slowly they began the climb to the ridge.  
    The only thing that betrayed the existence of a trail under the snowwere the evenly placed standing stones that flanked it along the top of theridge.  Creed felt, with a lifetime's worth of horned predator's senses thatthe prey he had hunted all these weeks was close at hand.   
    His guides needed to make camp when the sun began to creep beyond thehorizon, making long shadows on the slopes.  The heat fled with it, whatheat there was at any rate.  The Tibetans chattered on about freezing duringthe night if camp was not made and a fire built.  How far, he asked them,did this trail run?  How long till they reached their mysterious destination.   
    Close, they replied.  Perhaps tomorrow or the next day, depending onweather.    
    Sabortooth grinned.  His teeth were sharp, white points. Almost as sharpas his claws.  He didn't need their services anymore, if what he sought layso close.    
    Blood spattered the snow, but the darkening shadows ate it up and thebodies were swallowed up by the powdery top layer of new snow.  That snowmight never melt.  Might forever hide evidence of what lay below.  Sabortoothcontinued down the ridge trail, immune to cold, intent on his destination. There was blood on his fingerless gloves.  He idly licked it off as he went.  
    He might have missed the temple altogether, sat as it was against therock face of a sheer mountain side, but the rays of a rising sun reveledlines and shapes to organized to be the design of nature.  The ridge trailcurved up towards what could only be an ancient and time weathered Buddhisttemple.  For all the gray severity and crumbling facade, it might have beenabandoned ages ago, but Creed's sharp eyes picked up the pin point glimmershere and there along its facade of flickering torches.    
    The trail wound up and eventually under the snow his feet trod upon carvedstone steps.  He could just make out the angular shape of steps leading sharplyupwards.  He climbed up a hundred or more, before the snow dusted away, sweptoff by human hands perhaps, and the going got easier.  A hundred more.  Twohundred. Three. Zig zaging up the sheer face of mountain and finally leadingunder a cold stone archway into darkness.  He paused and sniffed the air. Air so clean and frigid that lungs shivered in ecstasy.  No human scenthere.  Just stone and earth.  He rummaged in his pack and pulled out a small,hand held device.  He flipped it on with one thick thumb and a grid cameto life on its face.  Ah, there it was.  Close.  Close enough to feel themoney he would get for retrieving it.      

    * * *

    Shimmering, white capped waves rushed the beach in rhythmic, orderedadvance, as if they had some military goal in mind.  It was an unstoppableforce, the ocean, eating away at the beach grain by grain, bit by bit.  Oneday it would win, and this beach would be nothing but sea bottom, and thegraceful, sandy bluffs beyond ridges for the fishes to dart around.  Everyoneknew, sooner or later, California would drop into the sea.  Rogue only hopedshe wouldn't be around when it happened.  She wasn't a big fan of disasterflicks.  Earthquakes, volcano's erupting, tidal waves wiping out cities andthe like just gave her a hard, coiled feeling in the pit of her stomach.A feeling that she couldn't shake for hours and sometimes days after seeingthe horror of natural disaster depicted on the big screen.  The power ofnature flat out scared her sometimes, awed her at others and amazed her atbest.  Sitting on this Californian beach, way down the coast from the crowdedshores of Malibu, she could watch the power of the ocean and think.    
    Nature made her wary, just as all unchangeable things did.  Rogue wasa woman who liked to control her own destiny and yet fate had thrown herthe ultimate loop of being powerless over her own self.  Oh, not powerlessas most folks thought of the word.  She was no lilting southern flower thatcouldn't take care of herself.  She was far, far from that.  It was morepersonal, more heartbreakingly tragic than that.     She pulled bare legsup, wrapping her arms about them and resting chin on knees. She stared outover the Pacific, reddish hair curling about her face and shoulders, a fewwispy white strands from the streak of white running down the center standingout blatantly from the darker auburn tangling with them.  A bulky sweatshirtcovered her torso, half concealing a pair of white shorts.  Her sandals layin the sand a few yards distant, forgotten as she curled her toes in thesand.    
    She hated disaster movies.  She hated tragedy.  She didn't know why she'dgone to see the matinee of Titanic except for the fact she'd been bored andeveryone else was at the conference and she'd heard wonderful things aboutthe romance of the picture.  She did so love romance.  One had to love whatone could only look upon from afar.  And after  
three hours of sitting through an incredibly moving romantic disaster movie,crying whole heatedly for the last half hour, she'd just had to go off andbe by herself.      
    She had come here, far away from the clamor of civilization to mournher own fate.  Melancholy was not Rouges natural state of mind, and whenbouts of it hit her, she immersed herself wholeheartedly in the sensation. She was so alone.  So cordoned off from the rest of the world.  It hurtso much not to be able to ever express one tiny bit of intimacy with anotherliving being.  Never to touch, skin to skin, even as a careless gesture ofwarmth.  Of all the mutant abhorations for a body to be cursed with, thishad to be the worst.  She'd rather be disfigured or inhuman.  At least thensome poor desperate soul could hold her when she was feeling this down.    
    Homo superior.  Ha.  That didn't matter much when she was always so isolated.   
    A soft laugh drifted down the beech on the breeze.  She looked throughwindblown locks of hair to spy a couple walking through the surf towardsher.  She made a smaller ball of herself, a tiny bit of flesh and bone thatwas only an afterthought against the dune of sand behind her.  They walkedby, caught up in each other, arms around shoulders and waists, occasionallysharing a whispery caress or kiss.    
    Rouge shuddered, sighing and wished she'd never gone to see the movie. Wished she'd had the patience to sit through the professor's speech at theWorld Mutant's Rights Conference.  But, as impassioned as she was on thesubject, she'd sat through four days of it already and was mightily tiredof the never ending verbal battle.  There was a hell of a lot of oppositionout there.  A hell of a lot of people who would just as well see all mutantswiped from the face of the earth, as if they weren't living, breathing inhabitantsof mother earth also.  As if they had no right even being born.  As if they'dchosen to be the way they were.    
    She should have gone to the conference.  

    Heads turned, mostly male, and followed the graceful figure of OroroMunro.  She stood out amongst even the flamboyant, beautiful people thatwalked the sunset strip.  She was exceptional in every way, from her statue,to her creamy chocolate complexion, to her startlingly blue eyes, to theflowing, pristine white locks that crowned her visage.  She was used to theattention. She had been a goddess once, to a tribe in Africa.  She was mistressof the elements of weather.  A mutant power that she controlled and usedwith all the sanctity and reverence as if it were her religion.  To a certaindegree, it was.  It was part of nature and to Storm, nature was everything.   
    This city, with all it's harsh lights and abrasive people was not sograndiose, despite all of it's fame.  Still she'd had to venture out andexperience it.  One gained everything from experience.    
    A thin oriental boy in baggy cut offs and a ragged T-shirt sporting thelogo of some hard rock band came at her, riding the concrete wave of sidewalkon his skateboard.  She hesitated, as he barreled at her.  At the last momenthe swerved, rocketing around her, laughing.  She turned her head to see whatother pedestrians he played at kamikaze with, and was in time to see himsuddenly and brutally snatched from the board and held up by a man scarcelytaller than he.  Feet kicked frantically, voice lifted in indignation, inempty threat, while skateboard continued on down the sidewalk.    
    "Ain't ya got manners?" the man, though short, could not be consideredsmall.  His bones were thick, and his body broad and muscled.  There waspower hidden behind loose chinos and baggy sweatshirt.  The gleam of naturalpredator lurked in black eyes.  Thick black side burns reached almost tothe jaw, and coarse hair swept back from his face in a widow's peak.  A cigarettedangled from broad lips. When he smiled  at the struggling kid, his teethwere almost sharp.  
    "Lemme go, man." the kid shrieked.  "I'll sue."  
    Wolverine just stared at the kid, until the boy's face paled and he ceasedhis struggles. The strip crowd veered around the disturbance as if it werenothing untoward.    
    "Logan." Storm called back gently.  He did not glance at her, but releasedhis grip on the skateboarder's collar.  The kid hit the pavement running,searched frantically for his board and disappeared into the crowd after findingit.    
    Wolverine sauntered up to Storm, hands in pockets, puffing lazily onhis hand rolled smoke.  "Reminds me of Jubilee, when I first met her.  Smartmouthed and full of spunk."  
    "That description, I believe, still fits."    
    He nodded, blowing smoke away from Storm, considerate of her aversionto it.  He was a head shorter than she, and next to her people didn't payhim much heed, unless they happened to look into his eyes and then they avertedtheir own, moving quickly out of his vicinity, not wanting his attentioneven if he was in the company of a beautiful african goddess.    
    "Two more days of this." he complained.  "I don't know if I can standthe sunshine and the glitter that long."  
    "Do you miss the cold, grey autum of New York, Logan?" she asked, surprised.  
    "Roro, I miss the woods and the solitude.  I never was one for California. 'side's Chuck's said about all he can say this time 'round, and most ofthese Mutant Rights bozos gathering here are tree huggers looking to jumpon a cause.  Don't matter what cause it is, as long as they get to protestin favor of it."  
    "Better that support than none at all." Storm said. "Every voice addedraises public awareness of the problem."  
    Nestled between a surf shop and tatoo parlor they found a mexican resturantwhere they enjoied a refreshingly authintic dinner.  Then weeded their furtherinto the nightlife of the strip.  There was an arcade, the whole front ofwhich was open to the sidewalk.  A great crowd of people mulled in and aroundits environs.  Every once and a while a cry of excitment rose up from itsdepths as some player or another accomplished the impossible.    
    Storm winced at the clammor and they bypassed the arcade.  Tomorrow shewould be back in a conservitive suit, standing behind Charles Xaviar as hegave his final speech and lecture.  He was the acknowledged voice for mutantrights in the world today.  The acknowledged expert, and yet no one knewhe himself was a mutant.  If they did, he would not have had access to mostof the ears he did.  It was one thing for a respected professer to standup for the rights of the minority, if he were nothing more than a brilliant,handicapped homo sapian.  If the world knew that he was the most powerfultelepath alive, then it would be another story.  As it was, there had beendeath threats, bomb scares, and protests against muntants ever since thisconference had began.  They had found one bomb and stopped two assassians. One feverently preyed tomorrow would go smoothly.  It would make Charlesso happy if this conference ended without the violence so many others haderrupted into.  But, that was why she and her fellow X-Men were here.  Tomake certain of their mentors safty and to prevent the type of altercationthat in this world televised event, might turn public opinion against theircause.    
    For tonight, she was in the company of a dear old friend, and in a cityshe was unfamiliar with.  She was content to explore and relax and let tomorrowtake care of itself.  

    * * * *

    The skeet ball sailed deftly into the center hole for the umpteenth consecutivetime and the chain of arcade tickets already trailing and curling along thefloor, became even longer.  It was house policy that any perfect game automaticallyreceived the next game free.  The young man standing at the foot of the skeetball alley had parted with a single quarter of his own money at the startof this unprecedented winning streak and not a cent more.  Even the bestplayer occasionally missed and hit the second ring, the management countedon that.  They were sourly casting glares at the player experiencing theunusual winning streak.    
    "How many's that?"   
    The man standing behind the player looked down at the pile of tickets. One might not expect him to be relegated ticket counter.  He was not a smallman or a particularly pleasant appearing one.  Among this crowd of teenagersand young couples out for a night's entertainment at the arcade, he stoodout like disaster waiting to happen.  He stood well over six feet and wasbuilt like the meanest of professional wrestlers on a serious body buildingkick. His hair was shaved close to his head, and his broad jaw sported awell trimmed mustache and beard. Teeth stood out shockingly white, againstdark lips and skin, but the most unusual thing about Bishop, at first glancewas the tattooed M that started above his right brow, descended over hiseye and ended just above his cheek bone.     
    "You have four hundred and seven, so far."  Bishop replied.  
    "Ninety-three to go." Remy Lebeau calculated, casting a glance from underhis shades at the very large stuffed bear that he had every intention ofpresenting to Rogue.  She'd been down for the last few days and hadn't botheredto hide the fact.  She wouldn't talk about it either, but Remy knew her wellenough to figure she was going through a bout of rock bottom self-esteem. The girl had a tough time living with her curse.  He had a tough time livingwith it, but he was a pessimist, most of the time. One day, something wouldturn up.    
    He finished the next game, collected his tickets and appropriated hisprize. The bear was almost half his size.  He carted it under one arm forall of a dozen steps before a virtual skateboarding game caught his eye andhe thrust the bear on a scowling Bishop.  
    "Just one moment, mon ami." he promised.  Bishop looked at the flat blackeyes of the bear, then at Gambit's back and frowned deeper.    
    "I can see the point in the ball game." the big man admitted.  "Therewas a prize involved, but this game seems to have no object."  
    "Sure it does."  Gambit swayed to one side, directing the actions ofthe character on the screen by the motion of the board he stood upon.  "It'slike the danger room, Bishop.  It horns skills - - see, I just avoided thatcar."  
    "What skill might those be?" Bishop asked dryly, staring at the computergenerated figure that represented his teammate.  Gambit glanced back andflashed a brilliant white grin as he finished the course flawlessly and inrecord time.  A crowd had gathered around to watch, making Bishop nervous. He was embarrassed to be seen carrying the bear and sat it down surreptitiouslyby his feet.  Nothing embarrassed Gambit.  He thrived on the attention.  Heblended so well with this crowd that one might never suspect he didn't spendhis life riding the waves and loitering in the arcade.  He was lilth andtan, with what, Bishop had been assured by the females he worked with, couldbe considered devastating good looks. Brown hair was caught in a tail athis neck, and more still spilled over his forehead and over his shades.  Theonly things about Gambit that might suggest he didn't belong here were hiddenbehind those dark glasses. His eyes had the tendency to glow red, especiallywhen he used his mutant powers.    
    "Gambit, I tire of this."  Bishop complained.    
    "Why don' you find a game and play it?" Gambit threw over his shoulder.  
    "It is a pure waste of time." Bishop scoffed.  
    "What?  You wound me, mon ami.  Look over there.  A shooting game.  Biggun, no?"  
    Unwillingly Bishop's eyes were drawn towards the indicated game.  Therewas indeed a very big gun mounted to the front panel of the game.  A sparkof interest kindled.  He drifted a step towards the target game.    
    "Don' forget my bear."

    They wondered into the lobby of the Radison at half past four in themorning.  A sleepy bellboy watched them from his post but otherwise the wellfurbished lobby was deserted, the lamps turned low for the night.  Bishopstill carried the large pink and white bear.  Gambit was having a hard timecarrying himself, having imbibed a good deal of liquor at the establishmentof ill repute that he had convinced Bishop to accompany him to after theyhad left the arcade.    
    A 'strip joint', Gambit had explained to him, as if upon entering andseeing exactly what the female employee's of the place were doing, he couldn'thave figured it out for himself.  Bishop might have come from a very grimfuture, but he was not an idiot.  There were such places in his time, onlythey were by far more dismal and called 'flesh mills'.  
And he might have gotten as many scathing remarks and provocative looks goingto one of them as he did at the one this night in this time, had he carriedthis particular bear with him.  He had only had to punch two burly bikersbefore the rest subsided.  Gambit thought it was all highly entertaining.   
    Gambit had been the center of attention for a bevy of shooter girls,some of whom had attempted to share their bounty with Bishop before his scathingglare had warned them away.  As a result, Bishop was stone sober and Gambitcould barely navigate the spinning glass doors leading into the lobby.  Heonly rebounded once, before he made it though the revolving door, and Bishopwaited on the other side to grab a lapel and jerk him out before he endedup back outside.    
    Gambit grinned hazily up at him and mumbled something in French.  Heleaned in against the bear, using it and Bishop as support.  Bishop gloweredat the bellboy who watched them with a quirky grin on his face.    
    "Well, ain't this a sight." A lilting voice remarked from the alcovesheltering the bank of elevators. Bishop winced and Gambit perked up, zeroingin on the voice and the shapely form of its owner.    
    Rogue stood waiting for an elevator, sandals dangling from her hand,head tilted curiously as she watched them navigate the lobby.  
    "Chere'." Gambit pulled at the bear and stumbled a few awkward stepsbackwards when Bishop released his hold on it. He approached her with theoffering, only weaving slightly.  She eyed it and him dubiously.  "What'sthis?"  
    "I won it for you."  
    "You did?" she blinked in pleased surprise, then looked past the bearbeing thrust in her face to Gambit's smiling countenance.  Her green eyesnarrowed.  
    "What's that on your face, Remy?"  
    He stared uncomprehendingly.  "What?  Where?"  
    "Right here." she reached out a gloved finger and wiped a smear of redfrom the side of his mouth. "It's lipstick." she accused.  
    "Non!" he said, aghast.  She held the finger with the smear of brightred lipstick right before his eyes.    
    "Yes." she shot back, then glared over his shoulder at Bishop and showedhim the evidence as well.  "What were you two doing all night? Ah can't believethis."  She stomped her foot so hard the marble tile under her heel splintered. "You can take your bear, Remy and you can - - you can - - Ah don't carewhat you do with it." she shoved the bear and subsequently Gambit back withthe palm of her hand.  He flailed backwards into Bishop so hard the big manactually staggered a few steps trying to catch him.  The bear, cheaply madearcade prize that it was, split open, spilling fluff onto the lobby floor.   
    Rouge vanished behind polished brass elevator doors.  
    "Well," Bishop remarked dryly, setting Gambit on his feet.  "that wasnot well done."  
    "I don' have lipstick on me?" It was more a hopeful quest for reassurancethan a denial.    
    Bishop frowned at him, stepping past to push the elevator button.  Gambitwiped his face with the back of one hand. A smear of red came off.  
    "Where that come from?" He stared at the miraculous appearance.  
    "I would imagine any one of the overly endowed, what was it you calledthem? shooter girls? who spent half the night in your lap feeding you alcohol,might be held responsible."  
    Gambit didn't respond.  He let the bear drop from his hand and the poorsplit thing lay on its side, forgotten on the floor while he leaned his foreheadagainst the wall between banks of elevators, muttering curses or prayersin French.    
    "Perhaps," Bishop said, as the doors slid open.  "we should have stayedand played target practice longer." 

    On this, the last day of the gathering for mutant rights, the talks turnedtowards a more scientific nature.  The meeting hall was filled with listeners,but today they were of a more educated nature than those that had gatheredin the last week.  Only the scientific community could have followed thelecture by the renowned mutant, doctor Henry McCoy.  Hank McCoy was one ofthe most abnormal appearing mutants loose in the world, with a broad muscularbody covered from head to toe in thick blue fur, facial features more reminiscentof an animal than a man, and the agility and boundless energy of a simian,but people, normal  people, strangely enough had to fear of him.  Perhapsit had been his stint as an Avenger, a team that could do no wrong in theeyes of the public.  Perhaps it was his charming good will, his dedicatedenthusiasm for research in both Homo sapian and Homo superior matters.  Perhapsit was merely that he seemed such a cheerful, cuddly creature that peoplejust liked him.  Regardless, the Beast, the codename he'd taken for himselfmany years ago when his mutation first began to effect his physiology, wasone of the few trusted mutants, in the minds of the American public.    
    On the podium he was excitedly talking about the gene structure of certainmutant deviants, using a long pointer to tap at the slide screen behind him.   
    Storm only half listened, more interested in the conversation her mentorand the founder of the X-Men, Charles Xaviar was having with a middle aged,bifocaled woman at the back of the hall.  Storm was immaculate in white,tailored suit, her hair caught up in an elaborate African knot on the backof her head.  She stood behind Xaviar's wheelchair, one slim brown hand restingon a handle, the other absently rubbing an onyx broach at her lapel.    
    This woman was an old colleague, who wished Xaviar to join her for dinnerthat evening.  He seemed pleased at the suggestion.  Storm was happy forhim, Charles had too few events in which he functioned socially.  Everythinghe did was for the cause.  For the Team.    
    Applause drew her attention and Xaviar's back to the podium.  Beast hadfinished his presentation and was bowing ceremoniously.  It was a fair estimationthat most of the people here had only vaguely grasped the concepts he hadrattled on about, but they celebrated his performance nonetheless.  The bluefurred doctor bounded off the stage with all the limitless energy of a three year old in a toy factory, his lips pulled back in a grin that revealeda mouthful of sharp and very predatory appearing teeth.    
    "Well done, Hank."  The professor praised, then indicated the woman hehad been conversing with.  "You know Professor Keyes?"  
    Hank bowed deeply, the hand holding his notes swinging dramatically behindhim.  "Not personally, but I have had the pleasure of reading several ofyour papers."  
    Doctor Keyes smiled somewhat nervously at the intimidating blue visagegrinning down on her.    
    "She and I are old friends.  We'll be having dinner this evening."  
    For a second, Hank's face fell; his brow furrowed in dilemma.  "Oh, my. I was hoping to get back to the mansion this evening and delve into someof the fascinating new data I've collected here."  
    "Ah, I know your eagerness when faced with new information.  Take theBlackbird back with whoever wishes to return home today, and I'll catch aflight tomorrow."  
    "No."  Hank hesitated.  "I couldn't leave you - -"  
    "Nonsense."  Xaviar insisted.  "I've a great deal to discuss with Dr.Keyes."  
    "Go on, Henry." Ororo decided the matter.  "I shall stay here with Charles. Go find Logan, I believe he is more than eager to return home."  
    With Storm's presence an assurance of Xavier's safety, there was littlereason for Hank to hesitate in taking the offer.  He grinned and startedto bound off towards the main lobby.  
    "Henry."  Storm called after him, a prompting note to her tone.  Shetapped her wrist when he turned curiously.    
    Oh, the image inducer. In his enthusiasm he forgot that outside the auditoriumfilled with people who did understand and support mutant rights there wasalso a convention for auto insurers and the rest of the world who might bea bit disgruntled by his appearance. He waved at her, flicked the switchon the otherwise common seeming watch and the blue furred Beast was replacedby a stocky, broad faced man in a tweed jacket and thick rimmed glasses whostood out no more than any of the other researchers who mulled about theauditorium.  

    Of course Wolverine was ready to go.  Logan harbored a distaste for theplastic reality of the more affluent West Coast cities.  Hank was surprisedthat Gambit was up for an early trip back to the dull hills of Winchester,though.  Until he found out that Rogue was all packed and ready to go home,then Gambit's decision made more sense.  Bishop opted to stay and play bodyguard with Storm, which was no surprise at all.  The man lived for duty. The man breathed, ate and slept with duty, which made him sometimes a lessthan charismatic personality, but garnered him a good deal of grudging respect.   
    The Blackbird, every sleek black aerodynamic inch of her, put every otheraircraft on the private field just outside of the city to shame.  She satoff in a corner of the airfield, like a predator in wait, soaking up theafternoon light like shadow swallowing color.  Hank finished the last exteriorcheck before ascending the boarding ramp and sealing it tight behind him.   
    Rogue had positioned herself as far back in the passenger cabin as possibleand stared morosely at the seat back before her.  Gambit was trying to talkto her, his voice a heady whisper. Hank's sharp hearing picked up a wordhere, a word there.  Enough to know that he was trying to apologize for somethingand Rogue was astutely ignoring his attempts.    
    Logan was in the co-pilot's seat, a half smoked cigar dangling from hislips.  Hank gave him a disparaging look. The Blackbird was an official smokefree area.  Logan shrugged.  "It's out, Blue.  Just feels good where it is."  
    Hank hopped over the arm of the pilot's chair and settled into the coolleather of the seat.  He began preflight warm-up even as he buckled seatbelts.    
    It was one O'clock now, with the Blackbird's mach capacity they wouldbe back on the east coast by six at the latest.   
    Smooth take off and the soothing sounds of Mozart and Hank settled backfor a peaceful flight.  Logan was a silent presense at his side, and Gambithad ceased his attempts to draw Rogue into conversation.  
    It wasn't until they passed over the green farmlands of Kansas that thepeace was broken.

    * * * *

    Creed straightened the lapels on his Armani blazer.  Beige coat overa white silk shirt.  Silk felt good after two months smothered in deep coldinsulating gear.  Creed liked the finer things in life, even though he thrivedunder the most miserable of conditions.  He cast a look at his image in apassing mirror.  Ran one large hand through wavy blonde hair and admiredhimself.  Rugged face.  Cruel mouth and roman nose.  Not a pretty face, butone that damned sure got second looks from the ladies.    
    The one he was following now, sort little oriental thing with hips likea boy and face like a geisha kept casting nervous looks over her shoulderat him.  She had met him at the door of the estate.  Sprawling grounds andold, old house about an hour's drive outside of Kansas City.  He'd been thereonce before, when he'd taken this job.  She'd been here then too.  Had donemost of the interacting between him and her boss.  His boss.  For the timebeing, anyways.  Old house, and dark and furnished like somebody only livedin it about six days out of the year.  Big empty hallways, and rooms offthe side with no furniture.  The sound of their footsteps echoed on the marbleof the hallway floor.    
    She took him to the same room he'd met her boss before.  Huge marblegallery at the end of the hall.  Tall, draped windows lined the far walland only a single candelabra lighting the room.  Her boss liked it that way. He liked the dark and the silence.    
    Creed could have cared less what the man liked or didn't, save that hewas paying him an extravagant amount of money.  Only thing that botheredhim about the whole situation was the man's scent.  Or lack of it.  He couldn'tpick up a thing from the man.  Not a damned hint of cologne, of bad breath,of body odor, of anything a normal human being exuded.  It pricked a vaguebit of curiosity, but not enough to turn down the job.  Creed had workedfor stranger birds.    
    The gallery was not the empty space it had been the last time he hadbeen here.  There was a stone pedistal in the center and the floor had beenmarred with the lines of some sort of runes.  The man stood behind the pedistal,robed and shadowed, hands hidden beneath the folds of his sleeves.  He lookedup and the hood shifted minutely, allowing a fleeting glance at his face. Stern, lined features that seemed insubstantial and flickering, as if theman beneath the robes might wink out of existence at any time.    
    Creed dug into his pocket and extracted a baseball sized polished stone. It shone dull lavender in his hand.  It had blazed blue almost when he'dtaken it from the temple in Tibet.  He held it out, displaying it for hisemployer to see.    
    The girl moved to his side and gingerly took it from his hand.  He lether.  His money had already been deposited into his accounts.  He didn'tcare if they decided to play stickball with the thing.  As if she were handlingthe most precious of objects she approaching the pedistal and placed theorb in a crevice that had been made to fit, then backed gracefully away andstood outside the rune lines.  It seemed to slowly change from lavender toa blushing pink.    
    "So," Creed said, since no one else was doing much talking.  "Our businessis done."  
    "There is one more thing."  the voice that drifted out from the hoodwas as eerily disembodied as the flesh seemed to be from the reality of theroom around it.  "One more task that needs doing."  
    Creed shook his head sharply.  "Sorry, but I've got other commitments."  
    "No.  This must be completed."  
    "Get somebody else."  
    "This orb must be taken to its counterpart, otherwise the merge cannotbe achieved."  the man said as if Creed had not just told him in no uncertainterms that he was unavailable.  
    "Like I give a shit.  You paid me to get the thing and that's all."  
    "Take this orb to its brother in the temple of Kashar and join them andyou will be released from obligation."  
    "Man, you don't listen."  Creed was getting a bit agitated at the man'sobtuseness.  He was not in the habit of being ignored when he said a thing.   
    The robed man lifted his hands and the rune lines began to glow.  A waveof distortion raced up one line and down the other.  Creed felt the powerin the follicles of every hair on his body.  He was being duped.  He hatedto be duped.  He let out a roar and charged the man behind the alter.  Hehit the pedistal the exact moment the wave of power completed its circuitof the rune lines.  The orb was displaced and what had seemed a smooth relayof power turned catastrophic.  The girl screamed behind him.  The man inthe robe ceased to be.  The robes fell into a heap at Creed's feet like thewicked witch of the west after too close an association with a bucket ofwater.  The wave of distorted power blossomed upwards like an inverted funnel,growing the higher it went.  A mile, two and into the outer atmosphere beforethe orb hit the floor and vanished.    
    Creed never knew it was gone.  Creed never knew what hit him, becausevery suddenly there was nothing but darkness and water and disorientation. It was going to be a very bad day.

    * * * 

    "What the hell?" Wolverine was jarred out of his nap and almost out ofhis chair as the Blackbird rocked in the air as if she had hit one motherof a patch of turbulence.  He cast an annoyed glance to the Beast, who wasfrantically attempting to get the aircraft back under some semblance of controlwhile at the same time trying to read something the onboard computer wasspitting out at him.    
    "There's something. . ."  Hank started, then had to put all effort intocontrolling the jet.  "There's a distortion.  A power surge of enormous proportionscoming up from below."  Hank  looked as if he wanted badly to abandon flightcontrol and concentrate on the computer.    
    "What's going on up there?"  Rogue was half out of her seat despite theturbulence that had the Blackbird trembling like she might be torn asunderat any moment.    
    "Strap in."  Wolverine snapped over his shoulder.  He looked at the samereadings Hank was ogling, but could make neither heads nor tails of them. Science wasn't his gig.    
    "What's causing it?"  
    "The computer can't seem to get a lock on the source, but - - -"    
    Then Hank's voice trailed off into a gurgle of startled vibrations asthe jet pulsed and shook with more violence than she had yet experienced. Wolverine's vision went screwy.  His fingers clenched the armrests of hisseat.  It felt like the bones would be shaken right out of his body.  Thenose of the jet wavered, went indistinct and blurry as if it had passed througha thick sheet of water that progressed up the nose and towards the body ofthe plane.    
    "Pull up." he tried to yell to Hank, but his voice was lost to the clamor. Then the sheet of disturbance passed the coc-pit and he lost all awareness- - -   
    - - - - Black.  Black.  And the sound of wailing.  Wind whipping violentlypast, tearing at clothes, at hair, at skin.  He came to slumped over thearm of his chair, warning lights flashing frantically on the panel beforehim.  They were the only lights visible.  The windshield showed only inkyblackness.    
    One quick glance to his left showed the Beast unconscious.  Another tothe instrument panel before him showed a dangerously low altitude and thejet doing a smashing imitation of a swan dive.  Wolverine grabbed at thecontrol stick, pulling back with all his strength.  The jet fought him, thewind ate at him.  Damn, was there a rupture in the fuselage?  He couldn'tspare a look back to find out.  She was damaged that was damn sure.  He feltit in the sluggish way she handled.  The nose didn't want to come up.  Hefought it with all the indomitable will of his namesake and the Blackbirdgrudgingly complied, but only before her belly scraped on what might havebeen tree tops.    
    A wing caught at something and Wolverine thought,  This is it,  as thejet spun out of his control and hit with a bone breaking impact.  Then skippedand hit again.  He heard the distinct sound of water.  They had gone downin water.  One last jarring impact and he was thrown forward against hisseat belt so hard he felt ribs break.  He cursed soundly, ignoring the painand searched on the darkened panel for emergency lights.    
    There.  Red lights blinked on.  He snapped the release on the seat beltand half lost his balance as the Blackbird tilted.  There was water rushinginto the craft.  He could hear its greedy gurgle.  What damn lake in Kansashad they crashed into?  
    "Logan?"  Rogue's frightened voice from the back.  He saw her rise fromher seat, her figure a shadow barely outlined by the hateful red of the emergencylights.    
    "Gambit?" he asked.    
    "'M o'kay."  The cajun's voice.  Shaky but alive.  He turned to Hank,who was still out, but was beginning to moan.  The jet trembled, a slow languorousjarring compared to what they had just been through, and began to invert. Water flowed into the passenger compartment.  Rogue exclaimed.  Logan ignoredher, going to Hank's seat belt and pulling the considerable bulk of the Beastout of the chair.  The tail end was sinking fast, pulled down by the weightof the engines.    
    "We're going down, darlin',"  He had the Beast's arm over his shoulders. He had to hang onto the back of the pilot's chair to keep from sliding downto the back of the passenger compartment.   "You want ta see about gettingus out of here?"  
    "Oh."  Rogue said.  He heard her moving back there, the sloshing of  bodiesthrough rising water.  Gambit moved up beside him, grasping the back of theco-pilot's chair.  Rogue moved between them, feet not even touching the floor. She floating up to the broad windshield and warned.  
    "Protect your faces."    
    Then, hands on the glass she pushed outwards.  The shield splinteredin a thousand webwork cracks, but did not shatter.  It merely popped outof its molding to be tossed to the side by Rogue.  She floated up anotherfew feet, then reached down and extended both hands.    
    "Give me Hank."    
    Wolverine lifted him up and she took him effortlessly.  "Y'all need ahand?"  She asked.  
    "Not yet."  Gambit answered.  
    "Come back for us when he's safe."  Logan said.  
    She nodded and disappeared straight up into the night sky.  When hadit turned so undeniably night?  Gambit scrambled up over the control panel,a little awkward in his movements, favoring one arm.  After a landing likethat a body tended to hurt.  Wolverine still hurt like hell, even thoughhis healing factor was kicking in and mending his abused ribs.  He followedGambit up and over the nose, then slid down the rounded side and droppedwhat must have been ten feet into the water.    
    Black water.  Black shore, if there was one.  He swam with no particulardestination in  mind, only wishing to get away from the Blackbird as shesank.  Fifty strokes.  A hundred.  He turned onto his back and paddled fora while, just able to make out the dark shadow of the jet's nose as it sankbeneath the equally dark surface of the water.    
    "You there, Lebeau?"  He asked, because Gambit wasn't making much noiseswimming.  He hoped the kid had the sense to get away from the jet beforeshe sank.    
    "I'm here."  Gambit's voice drifted to him from the right.  He soundedbreathless and strained.  
    "You all right?"  Logan sat out towards the voice.  
    A pause, then.  "Mostly. Shoulder's just a little messed up.  Belt caughtit when we crashed.  Out of place, maybe."  
    "We can set that right." Logan assured him, and closed in on a body. Gambit was lazily floating on his back,  one arm held against his body,the other out for balance.  But it hurt, that was clear.    
    "Maybe we could use Rogue's help now, after all."  Gambit suggested.  
    Wolverine stayed close, treading water, scanning the sky for something- - anything.  But it was all inky blackness.  Not even a glow of moonlightfrom behind clouds.  "This is damned irritating." he muttered.    
    It seemed like forever, stranded in the middle of a black, God knew whatsize lake, or river or ocean.  Then the faint, reedy sound of Rogue's voicedesperately calling.  
    "Remy?  Where are you?  Logan?"  
    "Here, darlin'.  Over here."  
    She followed the sound of his voice, until she was a dark shape hoveringover them.  "There's a shore a ways over there.  But let me tell you, thisis one big lake.  Never knew Kansas had any lakes this big."  
    "It don't."  Logan said, an uneasy suspicion sprouting within him.    
    "C'mon.  Give me your hands."  Rogue commanded.  
    "Careful with him." Logan warned.  "Dislocated shoulder."  
    She made a little aborted concerned noise, then figured out she wasn'tgoing to get out of this not getting wet.  She sank down into the water nextto them and wrapped her arms around Gambit, and let Logan wrap his arms abouther neck, then took the lot of them skyward.  The water let them go witha suckling pop.  They trailed remnants as she ascended some forty feet, thenflew slowly forward.    
    "Where'd you leave Beast?"  
    A long pause.  "I don't know.  I tried to keep track of which way I wascoming back, but I got all turned around looking for you guys."  
    "Was he conscious?"  
    "Mostly."  
    "Den it's a good chance dat little spot of fire way over there mightbe him."  Gambit  suggested.  
    Sure enough there was a small speck of flame way off in the distanceto the left.  Rogue veered that way and sped up.  The shore approached.  Athin dark beach that only made itself visible due to the pile of burningtwigs and debris situated some twenty feet from the waterline.  The beastkneeled before it, feeding it more bits and pieces of driftwood.  He lookedup as they came out of the darkness, surprise erased by relief on his mobile,furred face.    
    "Ah, I thought you might have been lost at sea and I cast in the undesirablerole of Robinson Curiso.  But with all of us here and well, I think we mightbe better suited for the Swiss Family Robinson."  
    "How'd you get that started?"  Rogue touched down.  She let go of Gambitand he half stumbled, then went ungracefully to one knee in efforts to sitdown.  
    "Umm." Hank looked distractedly from Rogue to Gambit.  "I've extensivelystudied the rigors and codes of the Eagle Scouts.  Are you all right, Gambit?"  
    "Why didn't you say somethin'?" Rogue complained before Gambit couldanswer.  
    "Thought you weren't talkin' to me, chere?" he muttered.  
    "I'm not." she agreed.  "Don't mean you gotta be a fool."  
    "I wasn't being - -"  
    "Shoulder's out of place."  Logan clarified to the Beast.  
    "Oh.  Well if that and my pounding headache are the extent of our injuries,then we seem to have made out  commendably.  Considering we've just surviveda plane crash caused by dubious circumstances."  
    "Umm humm." Logan agreed.  "You want that fixed?" he inquired of Gambit. Gambit nodded miserably.  Prodding the shoulder with his left hand, Logantook the arm in his right and without foreplay jerked the ball back intothe socket.  Rogue hissed in sympathy.  Gambit merely ground his teeth andmuttered a curse in French under his breath.    
    Logan took a breath, then sat back wishing he had a smoke.  The packin his pocket was undoubtedly soaked beyond repair, as were the matches tuckedin the package.  He looked about, squinting to make out shapes caught withinthe sphere of their fire.  The beach a few feet further out was gravely,formed of small pebbles rather than sand.  The ground Hank had built hisfire upon was hard and graced with tough, long grass.  There were scatteredpieces of driftwood lying about, as if some recent storm had washed a greatdeal of the stuff ashore.  Inland there was a darker line of what might havebeen trees, but no lights of civilization shown from anywhere around thelake or beyond.    
    "So, any speculation on just what the hell happened?"  He finally askedthe question they were all aching to voice.    
    "I couldn't get all the readings."  Beast said defensively.  
    "Yeah, piloting the jet and all." Logan agreed dryly.    
    "But, from what I did ascertain.  On the ground below us some sort ofenergy field was triggered, causing a wave of distortion to shimmer acrossour direct path."  
    "A wave of distortion - - as in distortion of what?"  Logan asked.  
    "I don't know.  Time.  Space.  Dimension.  Reality.  Your guess is asgood as mine - - well, probably not that  good.  The instruments on the Blackbirdweren't able to discern the exact nature before we crossed the wave and endedup here.  Where ever here might be."  
    Rogue had moved just out of the circle of light, arms wrapped about herself,staring out across the lake.  "What's that?"  She asked softly.  
    They followed her gaze.  Far out across the water was a light.  A faintpulsing light that seemed to grow weaker with every passing moment.  TheBeast rose to a crouch, then hopped over the small fire and joined Rogueat the edge of the beach.  "My, my.  It seems there might be something elseout there."  
    "Could be the Blackbird."  Logan suggested.  
    "Only one way to find out."  Rogue declared.  She rocketed up and overthe lake.  Only seconds passed before her figure was swallowed by the darkness.   
    "Wait," Beast called out.  "We don't know what's out there."  
    "An' she call me a fool."  Gambit muttered under his breath.

* * * *

    It was cool out over the black water.  A wind blew in from the oppositeshore bringing with it the smell of pine.  There was forest over there too,though there was no seeing it.  She'd never seen a night so black.  A skyso devoid of any heavenly bodies.  It was unnatural and frightening.  Shehad the sinking, terrible premonition that it wasn't her nightsky.  Thatit was foreign and entirely unwelcoming in its bleakness.  A friendly skywould have stars or at the very least the hint of clouds.  Not merely a dyingpulse of light hovering over open water.    
    Her mind thought - ghost lights.  She recalled legends of paranormalphospherescents floating down foggy railroad tracks and above swamps.  Asshe flew closer the faint luminescence revealed the outline of a structureand the tiniest glimmer of gently lapping wavetops around it.  She slowedand hovered above what looked very much like a large round bell tower witha light at its apex.  Only about twenty feet of it stuck above the waterline, but there seemed to be parts hinted at under the surface.    
    Rogue blinked in astonishment.  It couldn't really be a bell tower stickingup from the middle of a lake.  She flew closer to the light.  It was a glassencased flood light that was almost out of juice.  The dropped a few feetlower to look below the roof.    
    Something came out of the darkness of the interior and slashed past herwith enough force to knock her out of the air and into the water.  She cursedand rose up, fingering the shredded material of her blouse.  The somethingthat had attacked her had claws.  Wary and on guard she circled the belltower, but nothing showed itself.  She had half decided to fly back to shorewithout further confrontation when it came at her again.  This time it hadclimbed atop the bell tower roof and launched itself  at her from just belowher position.  Claws tried to rake her again and a low voice snarled.  
    "You can tell your master, bitch, that I'm not playing his game."    
    Then the body dropping away, ripping a gash in her slacks as it wentand hit the water below.  She looked for it - for him - from the sound ofthe voice, but could see nothing.  Listened for the sound of splashing abody would make treading water. Nothing.  No dark head breaking the surface. No sound other than the waves lapping peacefully against the stone of thebell tower.  

    * * * *

    "Well there ain't a whole helluva lot we can do till light.  Might aswell set up camp.  Set up a watch and see what morning brings."  That wasLogan's pragmatic advice.    
    "I would dearly love to have access to the Blackbird's computers."  Hankwished vainly.  
    "Yeah, well ah'm not sure I can dredge her up for you, sugah."  Roguesat by the fire, knees up, hair drying in the scant heat of the flame.  
    Remy's shoulder hurt.  The ribs on the other side hurt, caught by thelower part of the seat belt, but not, thank the fates that looked out forfools and thieves, broken.  He could not at the moment think of anythingto add to the discussion.  He wanted a smoke so bad he could feel the cravingall the way to this bones, but his pack was in the process of drying on therocks by the fire, as was Wolverines.  The matches were a loss, but thenagain, he didn't need matches.    
    He looked across the fire at Rogue and wished he could understand hermoods.  Might as well wish them out of here, while he was at it.  He hadabout an even chance of realizing either one.  She could be tough as nailsin some things, and then some little nothing wounded her to the quick.    
    She looked up while he was watching her.  He didn't look away.  
    "How's your arm?"  She asked softly, a hopeful tremble in her voice thatsaid she wanted an opening, was perhaps ready for forgiveness.  
    "Fine."  He grinned faintly, lifting the aforementioned member to provethe point.    
    Beast sat not far from Remy, rubbing his temples, head no doubt poundingfrom the knock he'd taken when the jet hit water.  Muttering to himself helay down, fingers still stroking the fur on his forehead.  Remy half roseand scooted the few feet around the fire it took to get to Rogue's side.   
    "Don' want to disturb him while he's tryin' to get some shut eye." heexplained in a whisper.  She half smiled.  
    "How you?"  He tilted his head at her expectantly.    
    She shivered, pressing her arms tighter about her knees.  There was arip in her pants and another set of slashes in her blouse. "Scared.  I gota terrible feeling about this place, Remy.  The pit of my stomach is justchurnin'. "  
    "We get home.  If Beast don' figure it out, the X-Men find us once weturn up missin'?"  
    "Yeah." she agreed after a moment's speculation.  "You're right.  Oneway or another things'll right themselves.  Always do."  
    "Logen's gonna sit up, why don' you get some rest, girl?"  
    "Why don't you?  I didn't pop no bones outta joint tonight."  
    She had a valid point.  

    * * * *

    Logan sat and listened to the sounds of this place.  The crackle of thefire and the gentle rush of waves attacking shore permeated everything, butbeneath that were the more subtle reverberations of life.  Insects clickedin the grasses beyond the shore.  To the south frogs belched out their matingcry.  To the east where he thought there might have been a line of forestbeyond the lake, the faint note of a night bird drifted across the otherwisemelodious strains of twilight.  There was a world beyond this darkness.  Itwas filled with sounds and smells like any other world.  It only lacked thebenefit of stars.  Logan could get along fine without the light.  His othersenses were horned to an alertness that normal men would not even dream possible. In the wilderness he was predator, not prey, no matter what the circumstances.   
    He neglected to wake Rogue to take her watch, too wound up to sleep,and too involved in familiarizing himself with the characteristics of thisworld.  He reached for a cigarette. He had laid each individual cylinderon a rock beside the fire to dry.  They were as good as they were going toget, albeit a little wrinkled and bent from their ordeal.  He held the tipinto the fire to light it and sat inhaling smoke.    
    There was a hint of color to the west.  A blush that tarnished the inkyblackness of the sky.  So there was a sun, maybe, that was in the processof rising.  The wind changed.  Came in from the east and the invisible forestand with it came the stench of something acrid.  He half turned his head,nostrils flaring like a beast.  Casually he put the cigarette out, pinchingits end to extinguish the fire and save the majority of the stick.    
    The odor came again, drifting in with the smell of pine and rotting mulch. The smell of sweat and the oils of an unwashed body.  He heard, in the nottoo far distance, the scrape of a foot across stone.  The slightest hintof a grin crossed his lips.  He put the cigarette in his shirt pocket andwith a single economical movement melted away from the light of the fire. He let the darkness swallow him as it had swallowed whoever, or whateverapproached from the forest.  Only he didn't make a sound.  And whatever wasout there stalking them, did not seem to pick up his scent.    
    He circled, keeping the camp in sight in case something got past himand he had to raise the alarm.  The blackness had turned to gray and hissharp eyes could just make out shapes in the last vestiges of night.  Treesin the distance, bushes and large outcroppings of rock between the lake andthe forest.  And moving shapes.  Man sized shapes that crouched and skulkedlike predators going for the kill.    
    There were four of them and they smelled odd.  Half unwashed man scent,half something else.  In their hands they seemed to be carrying weapons. He could not tell what.  He didn't need to know.  All he needed to knowwas that they were stalking his camp and his friends and that he would notallow.    
    Like his namesake, Wolverine came up from out of the shadows at the closestand quickly and viciously took the stalker down.  It should have been anincapacitating blow, a rock hard punch driven with all Logen's strength tothe side of the temple.  But the man didn't go out.  He fell, staggeringto both knees, loosing his grip on the club he held, but he remained consciousand let out a cry of pain and rage that alerted his fellows that they werenot the only stalkers about this night.  Logan hit him again, without preamble,and this time his knuckles hit twisted, sharp teeth.  He wanted this onedown before the others got to him.  But the damn creature, whatever it was,man or not, was stubborn.  An inarticulate roar of rage passed broken teeth,and hands clawed at Logan's legs.  The other three were almost upon him.   
    Sick.  They smelled of sickness, he realized.  That was the oddness hehad sensed.  The sickness of a rabid animal who attacks without reason orthought.  That's how these man creatures reacted.  Like a pack of rabid scavengers.   
    Click.  He released his claws.  Six razor sharp talons that extendedfrom the backs of his hands.   Kids gloves were off.  When those claws wereout, Wolverine meant business.  They came at him and he welcomed it.  Heslashed into their ranks with a feral snarl every bit as savage as theirown growls and cries.  The smell of blood mixed with the foul odor of uncleanness.   
    Two went down, permanently, but the third got in a lick with his club. A glancing blow to the back of Logan's neck that sent him staggering forward,seeing bright dancing spots of light in the gray monotony of early morninglight.  Then there were more lights, a bright flash of ignition as somethinghurled into the chest of the creature descending upon him with raised club. The explosion hurled the thing backwards, momentarily casting the facesof his attackers in stark, unflattering light.  The creature didn't get upfrom the impact of exploding kinetic energy.  The forth and final man-beastlet out a terrified squall, staring up at the heavens as if god himself hadhurled a bolt to strike down his comrade.  Then he took off at a franticpace back towards the line of trees.    
    Rogue passed overhead, hesitated as poor morning light obscured the retreatingfigure, then sat down near Logan.   
    "What was that?"  She was still blinking sleep from her eyes.  Gambitsauntered up in her wake, absently rolling a round beach pebble across hisknuckles.  It had probably been a similar pebble that he had charged andflung at Logan's attacker.  Beast brought up the rear, moving with a stiffnessthat belied his normal buoyant movements.  He still hurt from the crash,probably more than he was letting on.  Logan frowned at him for a moment,then nodded appreciation at Gambit for the assistance.    
    "Don't know what they were, but they were more animal than human."  
    "Dey headed into de woods.  Maybe dere's a camp roundabouts, or a town?"  
    "They didn't look like townsfolk to me."  Logan wiped blood from hisclaws before retracting them.  He prodded the nearest body.  Beast crouchedby the innate form, gingerly turned the body over and examined the man asbest he could in the scant light.    
    "They seem to be human.  Albeit unwashed, exceedingly odoriferous specimensof the species."  
    "They're sick with something."  Logan said.  
    "Really?"  Hank's voice perked up.  "When it's lighter, I'll take a closerlook."  
    "Well, Ah'm gonna fly out over those woods and see if there's anythingworth looking at."  Rogue announced.  "Maybe get a bearing of just wherewe're at."  
    "Be careful."  Gambit suggested.    
    She cast him a look and a dimple producing smile.   "Y'all know Ah'malways careful, Sugah."  
    Which meant whatever tiff they had been experiencing was forgotten.  Shelifted off again, torn silk trousers fluttering in the breeze of her ownmomentum.    
    "The one Gambit took out is still alive."  Beast announced, having inspectedall three prone forms.  "Although I would imagine from the labored breathingthat a fair number of ribs are broken. I want to take him back to the firewhere I can get a better look at him."  
    "Fine.  Long as you carry him.  I don't want the stench on me."  Loganremarked.

* * *   
    "Well, there are a number of unusual symptoms, physically that I candiscern."  Hank squatted over the still unconscious man-beast, the soft lightof full morning making the fire obsolete.  The flames were nothing more thana reminder of what they had once been, licking weakly at the traces of woodthat still resided within the charcoal embers of the pit.    
    "The eyes are so dilated they're almost nothing but pupil.  The skinis scaly and exhibits a fair number of boils and blisters and rashes in variousplaces.  Lymphnoids are swollen considerably, and finger and toenails haveturned blue, probably from the result of poor circulation.  The odor thatwe are all so very aware of, is more than the result of poor hygiene.  Thereis a disease that is most likely attacking the nervous system at work here."  
    "They were all sick."  Logan reminded him.  "That mean it's catching?"  
    The Beast scratched his jaw with wary uncertainty.  "I most assuredlyhope not, but other than that, can't guarantee anything.  Of course withyour healing factor you'd have little to fear.  It's only the rest of usthat might be at risk."  
    "Oh, dat's great."  Gambit muttered.  His attention shifted skywardsand with a shrug and a wave of one hand he said.  "Here come Rogue."  
    She came in from a height and dropped straight down into the trampledarea around the remains of the fire.  Her green eyes sparkled with pent upnews.  
    "Ah can tell y'all one thing, this sure ain't Kansas anymore."  
    Her comrades stared her down dryly, not appreciating the pun.  She huffedin exasperation at the lack of humor, then gestured towards the forest.  "Well,that woods stretches forever almost, but maybe five-six miles there's a prettybig encampment of some kind.  Big compound surrounded by a wooden barricade. Real, real rustic.  There were folk down there, but Ah didn't figure Ahought to stop in an' say hello without you guys.  There's also a river thatAh think this lake must feed snaking through the forest  a ways north o'here."  
    "Well there's damn little reason to hang around here."  Logan declared. "Might as well see what the local's have to say."  
    "But the Blackbird - - ?" Beast started.  
    "You heard Rogue, she don't think she can dredge her up."  
    Ever the pragmatist, the Beast sighed and nodded.  "What about this poorfellow here?"  
    "I think we all stand a better chance if we part ways here an' now.  Idon' know about you all, but I don' want him at my back if he all of a sudden'cides to wake up."  
    "Cajun's right."  Logan said.  "Leave 'em here."  
    Again the Beast conceded, although he did not seem happy with eitherdecision.  Since there was nothing to pack, they did little more than smotherthe fire before heading towards the woods.    
    The morning light was refreshing and crisp.  The sky was deep blue withhardly a cloud in sight, the type of blue that had never seen the tremendouspollution that our world spewed forth in abundance.  Nothing marred the view. The forest was a lush deciduous growth, filled green pines and an profusionof autumn foliage.  It was cool under the shade of the trees full of thehushed voices of life.  Bird song and insect clicks.  The occasional chatterof squirrels or something squirrel like.  Pine tags were so thick on theground that their feet made no sound.  It was a decidedly pleasant and peacefulplace to be after a night of such disorder.    
    "You know," The Beast said, after they had walked a great while in companionablesilence.  "If the X-Men figure out where we are and manage to somehow comelooking for us, they'll most certainly home in on the Blackbird.  We shouldhave left some sort of indication of where we were going."  
    "Where are we going, mon ami?"  Gambit inquired good naturally.  "Waythings are going, we might not end up 'xactly where we plan, no?"  
    "Well, technically, I suppose this is true - - "  
    "There ain't no dummys in the X-Men."  Logan said.  "If they figure outwhere we are then they can sure as hell figure out we went exploring."  
    Beast sighed, muttering. "I am feeling distinctly ganged up upon."  
    "It's okay, sugah."  Rogue patted him on one broad shoulder.  "You'reprobably right.  This whole thing has got us spooked is all, and we're justmissin' some of the details.  We ought to be coming up to the first bendof the river Ah saw, soon."  
    "Yeah, I can smell the water."  Logan said.  "Not too far."  
    It was perhaps another half mile through trees and underbrush beforethey found what appeared to be a game trail.  The well worn path led straight-awaysouth and soon the sound of a great body of running water could be discerned.   
    And then another sound intruded.  Logan heard it first.  He stopped inhis tracks, holding up a hand to halt the others while he tilted his head,listening.    
    "What?"  Gambit asked, soft voiced.  
    "Footsteps.  Running footsteps."  Logan lifted an arm and pointed tothe east.  "Coming from that way and fast.  Headed towards the river."  
    "I wonder if might be more of the same fellows who came calling thismorning?"  Beast said.  
    "One way to find out."  Logan replied and started trotting down the trail. The others had barely exchanged glances and come to the silent, unanimousdecision to follow suit, when a scream echoed through the woods.    
    "Damn."  Rogue swore.    
    Logan broke into an all out run.  Gambit and Beast sprinting on his heels. Rogue was almost tempted to fly, but the trees were too thick, so aftera moments consideration she followed the others on foot.   
    Logan was the first to break out of the woods and into a long stretchof clearing that bordered a wide rolling river.  He skidded to a half insurprise.  Two women had entered the clearing just before him.  They wereathletically fit, both clutching bows nocked with arrows, both dressed inpatched, beaded leathers.  Their faces were painted with garish designs,and their hair intricately braided.  It wasn't their appearance that surprisedhim so.  Rather what was emerging from the forest in their wake.    
    A barbaric, heavily armored, heavily armed army flooded out of the trees,screaming and yelling at the top of their lungs in a victory cry.  Seemingfor all intents and purposes about to overwhelm the two women.    
    He didn't know who was in the right and who was in the wrong here, buthell, he always did favor the underdog.  With a click of bone against bone,the claws came out.     
    ******  
    Rogue came out of the forest into bedlam.  How she had managed, by beinga mere twenty yards behind Gambit and Beast, to miss how all this had started,she would never know.  But nonetheless, she pounded out of the forest intoa scene out of Braveheart.  Swords and axes and barbarians in leather andfur, all yelling and hollering and mixing it up with Wolvie, Remy and Beast. She stood for a moment, taking it all in, trying to figure who was doingwhat to who and saw that there were two women who also seemed to be againstthe horde of tough looking warriors.    
    Wolverine was creating a circle of bodies around him, slashing this wayand that like he was in one of his beserker rages.  Remy had divested somebodyof a long, wicked looking spear and was using it like a bo, doing not quitethe bloody damage of Logan.  Beast was just using his big fists, long reachand super buoyancy to avoid getting hacked and sliced, while doing damageof his own.  The two women were the ones getting the worst of it.  They werestanding at the edge of the river, in amongst the reeds and bog plants, tryingto let loose arrows into the melee, but they were getting overwhelmed, andwere reduced to using the bows to fend of attackers.    
    Rogue decided the boys could take care of themselves and launched herselftowards the arm of attackers descending on the women.  She didn't botherto land on her feet, just bowled into the backs of the outlying group ofbarbarians, taking at least four down in a tumble of limbs and weapons.  Shegrabbed a handful of dirty hair and slammed one head into the dirt, thenelbowed another in the face who came at her from behind.  She didn't havethe speed of Remy or Beast, so she wasn't as adept at avoiding blows.  Thankfullyshe wasn't as likely to be hurt by them.  A sword arced into her back andbounced off.  It sort of stung, and she just knew her already shredded shirtwas now ripped in one more place.   Angry, she whirled around and grabbedthe wrist of the swordbearer and swung him around like a doll on a string,then released him.  He went sailing out over the river and hit water somefifty feet out.    
    "Serves you right." she muttered, before looking for someone else tomanhandle.  The two women at this point were staring at her in awe.  Sheshrugged in their direction and said.  "Well, its the only shirt Ah havehere."  
    "No."  One of the women cried, and it took Rogue a moment to realizeshe was not commenting about Rogue's one and only shirt, but had seen a bevyof vessels approaching from upstream.  Long, wide bodied wooden boats withat least six sets of oars each, and all crowded with warriors.  The lastthing the thirty or so men on shore needed was reinforcements.  She couldfix that.  It was just a matter of flying over and punching a few holes inthose boats.  She trudged through the bog at the edge of the shore, intowaist high grasses and tall flowering plants.    
    "No, don't go into the neagrul patch."  One of the women cried out toher and she turned in the middle of a group of white blossomed flowers astall as her shoulder.  She brushed a blossom and the flower seemed to retract,as if she had hurt it, then from it's stamen a cloud of powder shot out. In seeming concordance the other flowers in the patch also released theirown pollen.  She sneezed.    
    A warrior came up behind her and she went to casually backhand him, buther arm was slow in moving.  He hit her with a studded club on the side ofthe head.  She felt that.  It hurt.  Staggering backwards, clawing her wayout of the reeds and onto the hard earth of shore, she went to one knee. The man who had hit her went down with an arrow through his throat.  Hisblood splattered her sleeve.  She stared at it in awe, thoughts spinningaway dizzily in her head.    
    Someone cried her name.  She heard it from a distant place and dimlyconnected the voice to Remy.  She was so dizzy she was nauseous.  She wouldlike nothing better than to have him hold her while she vomited.  She neededsomebody to hold her, because she was loosing contact with the ground, withthe feel of her own body.  Oh, God, God what the hell was a neagrul patch?  
    The sick feeling was so bad, she wanted to die. Curled up in a ball onthe muddy shore of an alien river, she closed her eyes and willed oblivion.  Surprisingly enough, considering her luck of late.  She got it.

    * * * 

    An ax - a huge, dull, well used looking battle ax - swung by a tremendouslylarge, leather armored man hurtled on a direct trajectory with Gambit's head. He had to abruptly cut off present conflict with a sword bearing warriorof the same general body statue as the ax wielder to avoid an impact thatwould have surely severed head from shoulders.  He ducked, not quite divinginto a roll that would have taken him under the feet of a dozen enemies andcame up under the outside reach of the axeman, delivering a very hard punchto the man's solar plexus.  Even through hard leather and thick muscle, theblow had effect.  These men, this horde of warriors straight out of a MadMax movie relied more on their numbers and the wicked natures of their weaponsthan fighting skill.  They didn't know how to deal with opponents that werenot wielding weapons similar to their own.  Even then, Gambit thought kickingthe knee out from under a howling man with a knife in one hand and a spikestudded club in the other, they probably could not have competed againsta skilled opponent.    
    They weren't feral like the creatures Wolverine had taken out that hadstalked their camp.  No, intelligence gleamed in their eyes.  Intelligenceand cunning and a bloodlust that was all too human.  These men had a purpose,they had a goal and they worked well together to achieve it.  He thoughtthey had been purposefully herding the two women they had seen earlier towardsthis river.  The retreat of the two had certainly ended at the shores ofthe river, and they stood with their backs to the reeds shooting arrows intothe horde now.  One hoped they knew who their friends were in this mess. He didn't relish an arrow in the back when he was trying to keep a slaveringwarrior from carving up his front.    
    He caught sight of Beast holding onto an attacker by the neck and knee,using the man as a battering ram/shield in efforts to keep others at bay. Wolverine was the center of his own private little bloodbath.  The bloodwas his as well as his opponents.  He had taken numerous slashes, which bleedcopiously.  His claws were red blades wrecking havoc among the barbariansrushing to attack him.  Rip, slash, tear.  Logan's eyes were feral, wild,lacking the spark of reason that  separated sane, rational men from berserkers.   
    A man went flying overhead, arced out over the river and landed a goodways in.  Remy traced the curve of the flight back to its origin and foundRogue.  She was near the two women archers.    
    A spear thrust towards his gut.  He sidestepped and caught the spearman'swrist, twisting hard and wrenching the weapon from the man's hands.  He slammedan elbow up into an astonished jaw and the man dropped.  He had a weaponnow.  He used it like a bo, preferring the blunt end to the deadly one.  Notquite as careless of life as Logan.  He had not reached that point of rageyet.  It was only minutes since this melee had started,  too amazing a situation, too soon to play for keeps.  Their attackers had no such qualms.    
    Some one got a good slash in at Wolverine's back. Logan howled and staggered. Remy waded towards his comrade, slamming his spear butt into a face here,a stomach there, ducking, weaving, avoiding hands and weapons.  A towering,dark skinned man caught at his arm, spinning him about even as a club wasraised in the other large hand.    
    Rogue cried out.  Screamed in shock and pain.  It distracted him. Theclub came down, glanced off of his spear arm, numbing his arm from shoulderto hand.  He gasped, angry and in pain, and very much wanting to turn hisattention to finding out what had happened to Rogue.  His other arm was stillin his attackers grasp.  He twisted, jerked the arm free and caught the slimbase of the club near where the man held it. The big man wasn't letting go. He wrenched Gambit towards him.  Fine.  Hold on.  He charged the club, heldon for as long as it took,  then pushed backwards as the club exploded inthe man's hand.  Messy.  Messy way to loose fingers.    
    Remy was too distracted to care.  He used a man on his knees as a springboard, leapt over a cluster of warriors coming towards him and came downwith a knee in the back of one of the ones attacking Wolverine.  He saw inthat brief moment when he was airborne, that Rogue was down near the river'sshore.  He also in that moment saw boats moving in towards the shore.  Allthey needed was reinforcements.    
    He scooped up a handful of pebbles, charged them and flung them at themen at his back.  A dozen little explosions rocked men back and for a briefmoment drew all attention to him.  Eyes wide they stared, then a clamor wentup and the attack resumed.    
    "Wolverine."  He called over the uproar.  "Rogue, she's down."  He hadto let Logan know, because there were too many men blocking his path to her. Logan was closer.  God knew where Beast was in this mess.    
    "I see her."  Logan cried back, ripping a  man's stomach out .  "Morecoming from the river.  We've got to get the hell outta here."  
    Gambit could not have agreed more.  It was just a matter of reachingRogue.    
    Something hit him from the back. A blow that caught him in the ribs anddrove all the air from his lungs and the strength from his knees.  His legsbuckled and he went down,  frantic and desperate to claw his way back upand get to Rogue.  But they wouldn't let him.  A boot connected with thesore side, then another from the other side.  He grabbed for anything hecould on the ground.  Gathered up a handful of debris and charged it, thenflung it back.  Dirt and small pebbles wouldn't do that much damage, butexploding in the face of his attackers it might work to drive them back longenough for him to gain his footing.  To a degree it did work.  The man kickinghim staggered backwards, but another just took his place.  A spear but tothe head made his vision swim and his gut churn.  He lost what balance hehad and went down completely, too disoriented to do more than try and protecthis head from the rain of blows that fell upon him.  It occurred to him,as consciousness was sucked away, that they all had bladed weapons, but noneof them were using them.  Was it sheer maliciousness on their part to beathim to death, or did they want him alive?

* * *   
    Logan felt pain. But, he had felt pain before.  Pain far worse than this. This was nothing but a stinging inconvenience.  The slices and the bruiseslet him know he was alive and the sting of the blows urged him on furtherinto his fury.   Wolverine didn't hear or see Rogue go down, couldn't imaginewhat could have taken her down that these barbaric men possessed, but hedid hear Gambit, from not too far away call out to him and point out thefact.  Then, through a wall of bodies, he saw her and the two archers behindher, out of missiles and fending off attackers with their bows and shortknives.  Then further down the shore he saw the first of two, long, widebottomed boats slid up against the reedy shore and more men spill out tojoin their fellows.    
    This was a loosing situation.  There were too many and even he wouldeventually be overwhelmed.  They had to break free and this and run.  Inthe forest they might have a chance.  He could make good use of the covertrees provided.  The hunted could become the hunter.  He yelled this to Gambit. Hoped to hell McCoy heard where ever he was in this mess.    
    He made for the shore and Rogue.  Slashed a man across the throat whothreatened him with a club, turned and with a wide arc of his arm cut atthree more who tread on his heels.  There, breathing room.  Just a little. Enough to sprint towards Rogue's supine form.  She wasn't moving.  Fromwhat he could see there wasn't a mark on her either.  The two women behindher made threatening movements with the shafts of their bows.  He waved themaway impatiently, reaching for Rogue.  
    "Get the hell outta here.  Run back into the woods."  
    The two exchanged glances.  "Don't touch her.  She's covered in neagrulpoison."  
    "Right." he muttered, grasping Rogue's arm and pulling her up.  He gota shoulder to her mid-drift and hauled her up fireman style.  
    "Fool."  One of the women spat.  "Now you'll die too."    
    But, she didn't say more, instead taking his advice and sprinting acrossthe open ground towards the forest.  Men moved to block their path.  Theyresponded by swinging their bows.  Logan caught up, burdened by Rogue andcut into the attackers one handed.  He hardly stopped running.  He trustedGambit and Beast to follow.  He trusted them to be able to fend for themselves.   
    He bull dozed through the bramble at the edge of the forest.  Into theshadow of trees.  The two archers ran before him, quiet and careful in theirmovements.  These were women who knew the forest.  Why they had left it inthe first place to tread the open area along the river was beyond him.  Heshifted Rogue slightly.  There was a strange smell coming from her clothing. A pollen-like, bitter odor that made his nose itch and his eyes water.  Histemples throbbed a bit, as from some sort of allergy attack.  As if he hadever experienced such a weakness of the immune system.  He could sense hishealing factor working overtime, fighting against something.  What the hellhad Rogue gotten into?  
    There were the pounding of not so graceful footfalls behind them.  Noway would Gambit or McCoy make so much clumsy noise.  He couldn't easilyturn and look behind him, but the two archers did and their faces hardened,not with fear, but with determination.  When they looked at him, there wasonly disbelief.  They were surprised he was still alive.    
    "Not much further."  One said to the other.    
    "To what?" He called forward when they said no more.  
    They did not care to answer.  Past a rising and down a sharp incline. He had to catch at trees to slow his descent, weighted down as he was.  Hisfeet skidded on pine tags and loose dirt.  He splashed through a small stream,and up the other side, clutching at limbs for support.  An ax thudded intoa tree beside his head.  He cursed, preparing to deposit Rogue on the groundand turn to fight.    
    "No."  One of the archers called, hesitating to wait for him a the topof the rise.  "Come on."  There was a look in her eye that was impatient,that looked towards something yet to happen, but close.  So close.  Againstall his inner voices, crying to stop and fight, he continued the flight. Up the rise and beyond - -   
    - - and into the ranks of a band of women.  Not just a band, but a linesome twenty strong with nocked bows and quivers full of arrows.  They partedfor him as he burst down the hill, skidding to an ungainly stop.  As a unitthey moved to the apex of the rise.  Aimed.  Released.  A chorus of crieswhen up from the other side.  Screams of pain, of shock at this unexpectedambush.  The archers fired again.  And again, until  no more screams sounded. Then they turned and with haste jogged deeper into the forest with all thediscipline and uniformity of a well oiled army.  The two archers Logan hadfollowed beckoned him to follow.  Bemusedly, he did.  

* * *  
    Hank did not recall exactly what blunt instrument of war had stuck himalong side the ear.  What he did recall, in excruciating detail was the insistent,astoundingly loud and tortuous ringing that had taken place after he hadwoken up.    And the particular sensation of swaying back and forth thatthreatened to make his stomach rebell entirely and give up the remains ofwhatever food he had eaten before this dreadful experience had begun.  
    He tried to lift his head to ascertain his surroundings, but that lubgruiouslump of flesh atop his shoulders was being particularly unncooperative.  Itfelt like lead had infused his cranial cavity.  Thinking was that hard.  Andit felt that heavy.  His neck muscles were just not up to the task.  He settledfor opening one eye a slit.  It was a blurry, gritty world he looked outupon.  He blinked, trying to clear his vision and matted fur prevented hisfrom widening the eye completely.  One dreaded to think what substance haddried in one's fur to create such a delimna.  But, realistically one hadto assume it was blood.  His shoulders hurt a great deal and after a momentof taking physical account of how his limbs were arranged,  he came to theconclusion that his wrists were bound behind his back and his ankles tiedand drawn up towards his wrists.  Hog-tied.  How embarrassing.  
    To make matters worse, when he finally worked his eyes open he discoveredthat some sort of netting had also been wrapped tightly about his body.  Hankclosed his eyes a moment and wondered if this would be happening to him ifhe had been patient and stayed a few hours more and had dinner with Xaviarand his friend.  One hoped Storm and Bishop were having a much nicer timethis evening.    
    He pried his lids open again and attempted to focus enough to take inhis surroundings.  He was in a wooden pit of some sort.  Not a very big pit,his chest pressed against one hard wall, and his back against what mighthave been barrols or rolls of rope.  Now that his senses were grudginglyreturning he could hear voices.  Gruff laughter of men, moans of those whomight have been wounded.  The stroke of oars?  Ah, that explained the swaying. He was on a boat.  He could just make out the gentle lap of water againstthe hull.    
    He closed his eyes again and thought.  "oh, very well.  I'm being takensomewhere on a boat.  I might as well lie back and enjoy it while I can."  It was a rather drunken, bewildered thought followed by a gradual greyingof senses.  

    He woke up again when someone laid hands to him.  Dirty, unshaven faceslooked down on him from above.  Hands reached down and grabbed hold of thenetting wrapped about him and hauled him up and out of the hole.  Two setsof hands gripped the netting at his shoulders and one more the stuff at hisfeet and together they manhandled him over the deck of the boat and ontoa sandy shore.  He knew the shore was sandy because they  were hauling himalong face down.  Humiliating.  Absolutely humiliating.  He might have complainedbut the netting was being pulled so tightly around his throat that it cutoff the majority of air reaching his lungs.  
    There were a great many voices surrounding him.  He heard the sound ofrunning feet coming from the landward direction.  He saw a great many legsalong the path his captors followed.  They were trudging up hill.  Handsreached out to touch him, and the men carrying him cursed the curious andwarned them away.  When they finally stopped walking, he could just see thebase of some fortress wall.  Stone and timber and mortar in between.  Someexchange took place and with a great creaking great gates were swung open. He was sat on the ground. More warriors rushed up, interspersed among peoplein drab homespun rags.  Children with dirty, curious faces, women with deadeyes and haggard bodies.  Not many old folk.  But quite a few lame or crippled.  The clamor of all of them was tremendous.  They clustered around and evenwith the warnings of the warriors many a hand touched his fur, or pulledat his hair.    
    It was not until a second group of men from the river entered the gatesbehind him that Hank realized he was not alone in this frightening predicament. Another band of warriors carried Gambit, bound but not netted as Beast was. One assumed a large blue furry beast was more a threat than a normal appearingman.  The gates closed behind these last arrivals.   With a spear to histhroat, one of the warriors set about cutting the netting from Hank's body. They cut the rope connecting his feet to his hands and pulled him to hisfeet. Blood rushed to his head at an alarming rate and if it had not beenfor the hands locked in his netting he might have fallen.    
    "Make a wrong move and you die."  A mean tempered voice whispered inhis ear.    
    "I don't believe I'm capable of that, just this moment."  he repliedas mildly as possible.  They cut his ankles loose.  He looked at Gambit inconcern, but there was no possibility for closer inspection of his comrade'swounds.  They were in an outer compound of sorts.  A dirt yard some fiftyfeet long by twenty feet wide that separated the twenty foot high wall froma series of wooden buildings and sheds that surrounded a larger, stone fortressbeyond.  It was very medieval in appearance.  The castle surrounded by thedwellings of his peasant workers.  The armor and the weaponry of the menthey had fought also belonged in such an era.    
    They wanted Gambit conscious.  After a few slaps did not seem to do thetrick, some bright soul tossed a bucket of water on the unconscious man. That worked.  Gambit sputtered and rolled and bound as he was came up shortagainst armored legs and somebody put a foot to the small of his back tokeep him still while somebody else cut his ankles loose and then hauled himup.  He looked more disoriented than Beast felt.  His hair hung about hisface in wet tendrils, barely hiding a scrape on the cheek,  and blood smeareddown the side of his face.  He tried to wrench out of their hands, and gothit for it.  A blow to the stomach that doubled him over and sent him tohis knees where he bent over, retching.    
    Hank had had quite enough.  Stronger than any mere human, when he triedto jerk free he did so with better results.     
    "Oh, just calm down."  he snapped when half a dozen spears came up.  "I'mnot going anywhere."  He skidded to his knees next to Gambit, glaring upat the warrior who had struck him.    
    "Do we particularly look that dangerous at the moment?  I don't reallythink so.  Give us a break, would you?  Remy?  Do you feel as bad as youlook?"  
    Gambit glanced up at him from beneath lashes and hanging hair.  "Whereis dis?  Where's Rogue?"  
    "With Logan, one hopes."  
    "I think I'm gonna be sick."   
    Hank sighed, feeling much the same himself.  "Please not on me.  Vomitis ever so laborious to wash out of fur."

* * * 

    When they pulled him to his feet, Remy swayed.  Part of it was for real,a good deal of the unsteadiness was pure show, designed to make his captorsthink he was weaker than he really was.  Granted his head hurt worse thanthe meanest hangover he'd ever experienced, but it wasn't quite so bad asto incapacitate him.  He started worrying at the ropes about his wrists whenthey jerked him forward, towards the warren of shanty shacks that made upa sort of outlying community around the darker, more ominous structure abovethem.  The ropes weren't that tight.  How much effort did one put into bindingan unconscious man?  How were these men to know just how adept he was atgetting out things that normal people got stuck in?    
    So they led him along unsuspecting.  Only two of them, one on eitherarm, while a great deal more of them clustered around Hank, very much waryof his large, furred frame.  One would think, if one didn't know them, thatHank was the deadlier, more predatory of the two.    
    The odor was foul once they entered the narrow, pitted streets of theshanty town.  It smelled of rotting food and sewage dumped carelessly onthe street.  Manure from all manner of domestic animals mixed with garbage. Flies ruled the air, a constant irritation as they passed. There was thecarcass of a dead dog on the side of the street.  Another smaller, skinnierdog crouched over it ferally.  The people who loitered in doorways, or skulkedin the shadows of thin alleys ignored it.  Their eyes, gazing at the passageof warriors and prisoners, were devoid of hope.   
    It was terrifying.  In its own way more frightening than the violenceback at the river.  Remy had spent the first ten or more years of his lifeon the backstreets of New Orleans, scrambling for food, for shelter, forany type of living, and even the worst, meanest streets of the Big Easy didnot reflect this type of despair.  He forgot the ropes for a while, drawninto the despondency of this place.   Warriors walked among the masses, andeven without the addition of weapons and armor, you could tell the differencefrom the look in their eyes.  It was the difference between the oppressedand the oppressors.  The men with arms had power over these poor folk.  Itwas in the swagger of their step, the belligerence of their stares and theway no common person would dare to meet the eyes of the warriors.    
    They passed a cluster of armored men, and for a brief moment, one setof eyes locked onto him, caught his own and held.  Remy blinked, struck byfamiliarity.  He craned his head to look back, but the men holding onto himjerked him forward towards an iron grate separating the shanty town fromthe stone walls of the fortress.  The grate creaked up and slammed down behindthem.  He began with the ropes again.  Loosened the knot just enough to beconfident that he could slip his hand out when he needed to.  For the momenthe left it at that, curious to find out what they were being led to.  
    The floors were strewn with rushes that needed changing badly.  The smellwas bad, but not as foul as outside.  No carcasses littered these halls. Men crowded the halls, calling to others as they passed and soon a wholebrigade accompanied them.  A rowdy, brash bunch that pushed and shoved eachother as well as their captives in their efforts to get close and speak withthe warriors who had brought them in.  Then they were approaching a set ofopen doors and through them.  The room beyond was large, decorated with weaponson the walls, tapestries depicting slaughter and rape and battle.  Chainshung from the ceiling and from those chains hung bones.  Skulls,  spines,the odd arm or leg and sometimes the whole skeleton.  There were even, justto attest to the brutality of the decorations, the occasional corpse whoseflesh had not yet totally decayed off the bones that hung from those chainslike some sort of  gristly trophy.  Around those the ever present flies buzzed. There were cages along the walls, and slavering, wild looking dogs pacedin those.  In others mad eyed human animals crouched.  There were grateson the floor where the waste products from those cages drained down into.   
    He was afraid to look down and find out what dwelled beneath the grates. He stared straight ahead instead, at a wall backed with black drapery anda dais with a horrid bone chair sat upon it.  A man sat that chair, likea king on his throne.  Middle aged, balding, but thick about the neck andbody.  His face was cold.  Hard and intelligent and bitingly cruel.  He worea thick black cloak over black leather armor.  His fingers were adorned withrings.  The backs of his hands covered in tattoos.    
    The whole swell of warriors flooded into the chamber, this man's throneroom, with Gambit and Beast at their forefront.  Five feet from the footof the dais they halted.  Someone viciously kicked Remy in the back of thelegs and he went down hard to his knees.  The same was down to Hank and withhands in the clothe of his shirt, and in their hair they were held therefor the man on the bone throne to inspect.    
    The moment Remy got a good look at his eyes, he hated him.  He had theeyes of a murderer, of a lecher of a sadist, a man who trod over the weakmindlessly in the path to his own petty power.   Of course those eyes weredrawn to Hank first.  In a room full of beastly men, Hank outwardly seemedthe most abominable.  But his gaze out of all of them, was most certainlythe least.  There was in Hank's eyes the desire to very much make sense ofthis situation, to understand it.  If he saw, what Remy did in the face ofthe man on the throne, he did not show it.   
    "What manner of beast is this?"    
    "A very astute observation."  Hank said in his most reasonable tone. Someone hit him alongside the ear for his impertinence in speaking.  Hankducked his head, hunching his shoulders and attempted to plow on.  "If youwould only allow us a moment to explain - - "  
    They hit him again, this time with more than fists. A knife hilt slammedbetween furry shoulders.  Remy lurched forward, loosening his hand from theropes, shaking the ropes free of the other hand and sending a charge intoit even as he rose to his feet and spun, kicking the man who had hit Hankin the throat so hard the man's larynx was crushed.  He had long since passedthe point of not playing for keeps.  He released the kinetically chargedrope into the faces of them men behind him, and it exploded, sending themreeling and screaming backwards.  He had a space now.  A wary circle aroundhim and Hank, with dozens of grim faces on one side and the passive presenceof the man on the bone throne behind.    
    "Leave him alone." he hissed, crouching to help Beast up, gathering ahandful of woodchips from the floor.  Anything to charge and use as a weapon.  
    "And what do you intent to do now?"  The low, gravely voice drifted downfrom the throne.    
    Remy didn't answer.  A man made the mistake of moving forward from thecircle.  Remy charged a chip and tossed it.  It hit the man square in thechest and drove him backwards into the line of his fellows.  He went downwithout moving and Remy grinned.    
    "Who next."  
    "Are  you a wizard, too?"  The voice asked from behind.  Too calm. Toocasual.  Remy refused to take his eyes from the pack for the lone hyena.   
    "Sir, we are not your enemies."  Beast did turn to look up at the throne. "There has been an awful, terrible misunderstanding."  
    "You're not my enemy?  Really?  And what is he?"  
    "I'm your enemy, ol' man."  Remy spat, charged a chip and threw it atthe next dog that tried the space around him.    
    "Remy."  Hank hissed under his breath.  "We are in a situation here thatviolence may not be the solution to."  
    "You're naive, if you think it ain't."  Remy hissed back.  
    "Ah, a man of reason."  The man on the throne said.  "Even though youlook like a demon, you have the intellect of a philosopher.  That is so rarehere.  Perhaps you and I will talk."  
    Hank sighed, lips pulling back into a diplomatic smile.  "I'm so gladto hear  - -"  
    "But not just yet."  the man on the throne hissed.  He lifted both beringedhands and cried out a gibberish word.  Power poured out of his fingers, zigzagged forth like a cartoon drawing of a bolt of lightening and caught Gambitin the back.  Remy staggered, the breath torn out of him, pain lacing thoughhis nervous system.  The mass of warriors rushed forward, enveloping himand Beast.    
    God, not again.  Beaten down by a half dozen fists and boots, until hecouldn't think.  He did not pass out this time.  They stopped before that,at the command of the man on the throne.  The man who was more than justa man.  What had he said?  Are you a wizard, too?  
    They dragged him forward, up onto the very dais the throne sat upon,arms twisted behind him, on his knees before the cold faced wizard.    
    "And what you are, to create such explosions out of nowhere.  You didnot call on the dark powers, for I would have sensed."  
    Remy spat a curse at him.  They would have hit him for it, but the wizardheld up a hand and stopped them.  That hand he reached forward and placedcarefully, gently on Remy's head. He closed his eyes and muttered a word. When he opened them, he was smiling.  "Ah.  The power comes from within,not without.  That can be dealt with.  All it takes is the proper leash. His hands.  Let me see his hands."  
    They forced his arms before him. He fought it, thinking they meant todo something horrible like break his fingers or cut off his hands, but thewizard merely placed his jeweled fingers around Remy's wrists and began aquiet chant.    
    Hank started to say something, but was cut off abruptly with a blow. Remy wanted to protest, but his tongue was suddenly leaden in his mouth. A trail of sensation traveled up his arms and into his chest.  It startedout as heat and turned into pain.  He jerked back into the immovable wallof men behind him and they held him fast.  It felt as if tendrils of firewere being driven into his wrists, up his veins and into his heart. It hurtso bad he wanted to scream, but wouldn't allow them the satisfaction of hearingit from him.  He ground his teeth, and uncontrollable tears leaked from thecorners of his eyes and then, abruptly it ceased.  The wizard let go.  Themen pulled back, releasing him.  He crumbled, for a moment resting his foreheadon the floor before his knees, and cradling his wrists against his mid-section. Someone came up beside him, pressing close.  Warmth and fur.  Hank.  
    "Gambit, let me see."  
    He didn't want to. He was afraid to look himself.  It felt foreign.  Itfelt as if something alive and venomous had been grafted into his flesh. He straightened, only because not to have belied weakness and he didn'twant to show that here, no matter how scared he was to see what had beendone.  He held up his hands and on his wrists there were two bands.  Almostmetallic, seamless, covered with rune-like patterns that seemed to shiftand move as if something alive writhed under the surface.  He thrust hishands away from him in shock, then reflexively tried to pry them off, toturn them and look for a catch, a lock, a seam.  But they wouldn't turn.They were warm, like his skin and seemed to meld into the very lines of hiswrists.  His hands started trembling.  He couldn't at the moment, stop them.  
    "Oh my goodness."  Beast exclaimed softly.  "This is very interesting." He looked up to the Wizard.  "I hope not permanent."  
    The man smiled coldly.  "That would depend entirely upon your friend."  
    "Oh, he can be very accommodating, can't you, Remy?"  Hank nudged himwith his shoulder.  He glared.  At the Beast, at the Wizard. At this precisetime, he did not feel at all accommodating.  The wizard lifted a brow athim, then tossed him a coin.  A small copper piece that he reflexively caught.  
    "Make it explode against me, boy."  The man suggested.  
    Oh, with pleasure.  Gambit ground his teeth and channeled his mutantpower to charge the coin.  The coin didn't charge, but his wrist felt likeit was about to implode. He gasped in surprise and dropped the coin.  Ithit the floor with a dull clink.  He stared at his wrists.  Beast staredat the coin, waiting for it to explode at his knees.  The crowd waited warily. The Wizard sat forward smugly.    
    "There is only one power in Osval and that is Me."  
    "Ah, I can plainly see that."  Hank said.  "But, we're new in town andforgive our ignorance, but who are you?"  
    A murmur of surprise went up from the surrounding men.  The wizard satback, pondering.  "Coincidental.  How very coincidental.  My name is Aronthal.This is my fortress.  This is my land.  All bow to me here."  
    "Then dey all dogs."  Remy muttered.  
    Aronthal leaned forward again.  "You lack a certain degree of respect. Dogs have respect.  Perhaps you'd like to stay with the dogs until you gainit?" He waved a hand towards the cages along the walls containing the pacingdogs.    
    "How coincidental?" Hank chirped up desperately.  "You mentioned coincidence?"  
    Aronthal kept his eyes fixed on Gambit for a moment more, smiled as though visualizing some dire punishment, then turned to face Hank.    
    "I was looking for another foreigner when I sent my warriors out intothe wilderness.  A man from a distant place that came here on a mission forme.  But you are not him."  
    "No."  A voice boomed forth from the milling crowd of men.  "You werelookin' fer me."  
    A figure stepped forward, taller than the rest, elbowing his way to theforefront of the crowd.  Thick lips pulled back in a grin, revealing sharpwhite teeth.  A leather helmet barely concealed a shock of thick blonde hairthat grew in curly side burns down his jawline.  In a place full of unfamiliar,hated faces, this was a familiar hated one.  This one belonged to VictorCreed.  Sabortooth.

To be continued.......  



	2. Chapter two

alienshore2

Beast and Gambit weren't coming. 

Logan figured that out as soon as the troop of female archers wrecked havoc upon the pursuing warriors from atop the forest rise. They weren't among the dead and wounded at the little stream bottom. Any other time he might have circled back to see if he could find them, but burdened as he was with Rogue's unconscious weight, he had no choice but to take the route of escape offered. 

His nose was still itching. Rogue's breathing was shallow and irregular. There was something coating her that gradually worsening its effect on her. 

"What happened to her?" He trudged along side one of the young women from the river. She was short and stocky, with beads in her hair and fierce determination in her dark eyes. She had a square jaw, a nose that had seen one too many breaks and scars on her face. Pock marks from some bygone sickness, perhaps. 

The woman glanced at him askance, wary, suspicious of his presence. He was bloody, ripped and torn and some bit of the wildness that had overtaken him back at the river might still have shown in his face. 

"Might as well leave her. She got the neagrul pollen straight in the face. Nobody survives that. Probably already dead. Don't know why you aren't, touching her, all covered in the stuff like she is."

"She's not dead." Logan growled. "And I've got a strong constitution." Poisoned then. And the pollen still coated her skin. That was what was irritating him and keeping Rogue, who had the physical constitution of a super kree warrior, down. He had to get it off her. 

"I need to wash it off her. Is there a stream nearby. Some water source?"

The woman looked at him, gauging, then shrugged and jogged forward to consult with a lagging group of her comrades. They all looked back at him, then a few of them split from the line to form up around him. 

"There's a small tributary just east of here. We'll take you." The archer he had been conversing with announced. 

"Without you and yours they'd have died back there." One of the others said. "We owe you this much."

He inclined his head. He followed them through dense forest, and soon reached a narrow, rough game trail. Between the blood and the pollen, his sense of smell was shot. He heard the sound of a small stream before the fresh smell of water alerted him to its existence. The archers stood back, well away from him and any danger of being contaminated by Rogue and watched while he dumped his teammate bodily into the stream. It was shallow, coming only up to his knees, but it was deep enough to cover Rogue's prostrate form. He held onto her by the hair, to keep her head above water, then ripped off the remains of his bloody shirt to protect his hand while he did his best to rinse the pollen from her skin and clothing. 

The water was cold and stinging on his own wounds, but no blood flowed. The gashes in his flesh had already closed and began their accelerated healing process. When he had finished with Rogue he dragged her onto the shore and washed himself down, then turned, knee deep in the stream and asked the women for something to wrap Rogue in that he might carry her without danger of touching her skin. They stood for a few mute moments appraising him. Then the oldest of the trio reached into a back pack and pulled out what might have been a leather rain poncho. It was big enough, when he slipped the hope in the center over Rogue's head to reach her calves. 

He nodded his thanks to the woman after he had holstered his burden once more and gruffly introduced himself. "Names Logan. This here's Rogue."

"You're not one of Aronthal's men?" The older one observed. "Stazul said you killed them too well for that."

"Aronthal?"

The woman's lips pulled back in a cold grin that held no humor. "The Warlord of Osval. The murderer, the despot, the Wizard of the world." She laughed, then and there was a note of despair in that laugh. "If you're a man and you're not plagued with the Sickness, then you either belong to Aronthal or the order of Kashar, and frankly, you don't look much like a priest, either, which makes me wonder just what you are."

"Who do you belong too?" He asked carefully.

"We don't belong to anyone, which is why you find us hiding in the wilderness like hunted animals." She snapped her mouth shut after that and concentrated on navigating the forest. Oh, yes, there were things here that a body needed to find out to survive. 

"What's your name?"

She glanced back once. "Kuthal."

* * * *

He had to stop once, even his endurance pushed to the limit, in this trek through the woods with a woman slung over his shoulders. They allowed it, the small group that had stayed back behind the others to accompany him - - to lead him - - or perhaps merely to make certain he was up to no mischief in their woods. 

There was an approach of clumsy feet through bramble and debris once. He heard it before they did, and casually pointed it out. Kuthal motioned the two younger women to knock their bows, and the three of them crouched waiting, until a lumbering, almost sub-human man careened out of the dappled shadow of trees. Logan could smell the sickness fifty feet away. The man creature weaved in his steps, and foam, splotched with blood bubbled at his mouth. There was not even the glazed look of feral hunger in his eyes that Logan recalled from the three at the lake. 

Kuthal swore softly and rose, loosing an arrow at the staggering creature. It lodged firmly in his eye socket. The head snapped back, the body toppled forward, jamming the arrow through the back of the head. The other two women loosened bow strings and straightened, looking pale and grim.

"Wouldn't have lasted the week anyway." Kuthal said, as though attempting vindication. 

"The Wizard's men have chased the plaugers into the forest." Stazul said angrily. "What does he want, sending so many into the wood?"

"What ever they wanted was south of here. By the lake." Kuthal said. "You were probably just unlucky enough to run across them when you did."

Logan listened and said nothing. This wizard sent his forces to the lake looking for something. They had come into this world at their lake and something else had come with them. Something Rogue had encountered in the dark. Too much coincidence for his tastes. 

He rose to his feet and shouldered Rogue, with that movement indicating he was ready to press on. The women started out without a word. Perhaps an hours walk and the forest thickened. The trees grew closer together, and the bramble became more intertwined. It was a struggle to move through, but the women chose the harshest path. He hesitated to extend his claws and slash his way through for his guides seemed purposefully picking their own way through with great care not to damage the briars and vines that grew prolifically in their way. Then the way was blocked completely by a fifteen foot high wall of thick, twisting thorns that grew so thick that no light could penetrate its depths. 

The two younger women moved towards it without hesitation. They plunged their unprotected hands into the bramble up to the elbows, seemed to find some hand holds within, and tensed muscles to pull back. With a rustle of dry vines, a section of the briar wall swung outwards. Logan was impressed. They had obviously grown and cultivated this natural barrier to guard something within. It would have stopped any animal bigger than a rabbit. Most certainly it was a deterrent to human intruders. 

Kuthal slipped through the narrow opening, beckoning Logan to follow. He sidled through, and into a clearing. It was surprising to find such a space in the midst of what had been a very old, very dense forest. The clearing was circular, perhaps five hundred yards across. A few very large trees had been left standing and under and in these a community of sorts had been built. There were tents in the grass, the canvas painted with colorful symbols. Closer to the trees were more permanent structures. Small wooden huts sat in the shade of the large trees. Within the branches of the trees themselves a great number of tree houses had been built, perched on the great, thick limbs. Women dotted the yard. Women dressed in the forest garb of the archers, women dressed in ankle length, patched skirts, women heavy with child, old women, young women. There were quite a few children clutching at skirts, or hanging together in small groups watching the entrance of the archers and the stranger in their midst. There were males among the young, but as far as Logan could see there were no adult men. No male of an age over ten in the entire village. 

Women clustered around them curiously, whispering among themselves, asking questions of Kuthal and her two companions. A group of women who held themselves with the air of authority approached from the cluster of huts under the trees. Logan stepped closer to Kuthal and said.

"I feel an interrogation coming on. Can you find me a place to put her before it happens?"

Kuthal grinned at him and nodded. "I think you've done your duty to her this long day. Give me a moment, I'll let them know they can talk with you after your friend is settled."

She was true to her word. They stared at him as if he were the most dire thing to enter their little village in years, but they let him past with his burden without a word. Kuthal led him to a tent. It was teepee shaped, and dyed a sky blue, with intricate beadwork and weaving decorating the outside. Kuthal held the flap open for him, entering behind him and pulling back the top blankets from a low pallet. 

Carefully, he laid Rogue down. He studied the pallor of her face, the slow rise and fall of her chest. Her hair was a tangled, curling mess about her face and beneath her shoulders. Kuthal squatted behind him, watching him watch Rogue.

"I can not believe she lives." The woman whispered finally. "Negrul is the deadliest poison we know of. Just a smear of it on the skin and a grown woman will die in minutes. How foolish she was to blunder into a patch of it."

"She didn't know." Logan said, voice low, as if he might wake Rogue from her forced sleep. "There ain't no such plant where we come from."

"Then that must be far away, indeed." Kuthal observed. 

"Yeah. It is." 

"And your people must be strong of body indeed for her to survive and for you too, having touched the poison on her."

He looked back at her. She was fishing now. Looking for information that he might unwittingly give up during an intimate moment. She had the look in her eyes of a woman who had suspicions she was not yet willing to voice. This whole village feared the outside world. That was clear from the cultivated wall of thorns surrounding it. They had good reason if the welcome he and his had received was any indication of the way of life around here. Barbarian conquerors on the one hand and wild, men-beasts on the other. If he was to learn anything about this place, he had to quell their suspicions.

"Your elders are waitin' ta talk to me." He rose, dusting off his hands on the bloody material of his pants. Kuthal nodded, proceeding him out. She led him to the huts under the trees, and into the largest one. A small fire burned in a pit at the back of the hut, smoke trailing up and out of a hole in the roof. Clean rushes covered the floor. A low table dominated the center of the room, and around that low curved benches with furs thrown over them for comfort. 

Four women ranging from forty to sixty stood or sat in the hut. They all stared when Kuthal ushered him in. Their eyes were dark and accessing and in no way gentle or possessing womanly softness. These women, he thought, were responsible for the well being of this village and they took their duties very seriously. They were also not prone to useless pleasantries.

"If you are not a man of Aronthol's, then why have you not succumbed to the Sickness?" The oldest of the lot snapped, glaring at him pugnaciously. 

"I'm not prone to sicknesses." He returned bluntly, staring her straight in the eye. 

"All men are prone to the Sickness." The old one shot back.

Logan shrugged.

"Not all men." One of the others reminded the elder gently. "Think of Ruman."

"Hummph. Ruman's not a real man." The old woman sniffed, but her hackles lowered somewhat. She lifted one gray brow leeringly. "Not like this one."

"Who are you then, if you're not one of Aronthol's?" The one who had mentioned Ruman asked. She had long, graying hair in two braids down her shoulders. 

"Names Logan. Me nor the girl I brought here with me have anything to do with this Aronthal. Doubt me, just talk to your two girls that horde chased down by the river."

"We have. You are a great warrior, if half of what they say is true. From where do you hail, Logan?"

"Long, long way away. You might say we were shipwrecked on your shores. I've got two more friends I left back there at the river that came with us. I've got to find out what happened to them."

"Dead." the old woman snapped. "Or captured by Aronthol. Same thing if you ask me."

"Why?" He eyed her narrowly. "What will he do with them?"

"If they don't bow down and give him allegiance - - you don't want to know." she cackled, but there were painful memories in her old eyes. 

"Rakeena." The soft spoken elder cautioned. 

"But, I do want to know." Logan growled.

"If you're not Aronthol's warrior, you're his obedient slave. If you're not his slave, then you're either his entertainment, which is the same as slow death. If not that, then he simply infects you with the Sickness."

"They are probably dead." The quiet one said. She had a certain degree of sympathy in her eyes. He looked to her, took a step towards her and asked. 

"What's yer name, Lady?"

Almost she blushed. He had to figure these women hadn't seen a decent man in ages if the likes of him could bring a blush to their cheeks. 

"Bren." she answered. "The old sourpuss is Rakeena. This is Saketha and Trulen. We are the elders of this village."

He nodded respectfully. "You've got my gratitude for letting me bring Rogue here. I won't let you regret it. But, I've got to go back to the river and see what became of my friends."

"Waste of time." Rakeena said. Logan ignored her. 

"The Plaugers have been driven into the forest by Aronthol's patrols." Bren said. "It is not safe to travel the woods now."

"I can take care of myself. I can find my way back on my own." He assured her. "You don't need to risk any of yours. All I ask is that you take care for my friend while I'm gone."

They exchanged looks. Rakeena muttering 'fool' under her breath. Then Bren beckoned Kuthal in among them. "We cannot in good faith as hosts allow you to travel back to a place of such danger alone. Kuthal is our master hunter. She shall lead you and see your safely back."

Logan grinned at her. "Darlin', if it makes you happy."

* * *

Santa Claus and the Easter Bunny showing up in this damned inconvenient place, ringing bells and chanting to the dali lama would not have surprised Creed more than Remy Lebeau and Henry McCoy did, being dragged through the narrow streets of Osval. He could not, in his wildest imaginings begin to understand what the X-Men were doing here. He had only a partial comprehension of his own presence in Aronthol's domain. He was not entirely clear how he had gotten here - but he had a glimmering it had to do with the damned orb he'd trekked through the frigid hell of the Himalayas to retrieve. One had to figure that his move back at the old man's house in Kansas hadn't been the smartest one he'd ever made. Destroying whatever device his employer had been activating had seemed to have a negative effect. Instead of the warm feel of blood on his hands, he got ripped from one reality and thrust into the cold dark truth of another. He should have just ignored the old man and strode out - overtop of the little chickie who'd ushered him in if necessary. If he had a failing and Creed did not admit to many, then it had to be a occasional rashness of action that sometimes worked against him. 'Course he always made the best of it. He always landed on his feet. Even if the ground he landed on was muddy and rush strewn and most definitely alien. 

Gambit and the Beast didn't seem as if they'd had so soft a landing. Not that that mattered much, save for the nagging curiosity of what they were doing here. It was interesting to watch the Cajun slip his bonds and wreck a little havoc. More so to see Aronthol's reaction. Aronthol was the old man who'd employed him. He hadn't been so solid in Creed's world. Just a faint echo of the man who sat that grim throne of bones, but it was him. Creed could smell him now. Could taste the power of the man. What had been a shadow of Aronthol in Kansas was a blast of omnipotence here in this backwards, brutal world. 

His men were morons. Carnal and violent without the true skill of a predator, of a hunter to back them up. They relied on weapons and numbers and the fear that bullies inflict upon the hapless to make them powerful. Creed was better. Gambit and Beast should have been better, but the barbarians had numbers on their side. Creed had slipped in amongst their numbers with none the wiser. Had accompanied them to this crude city and let them lead them to the man responsible for his being here. To the man who would know how to get him back home. And wizard or not, god help that man if he refused the favor.

He stayed in the background and watched the interplay between Wizard and X-Man. Watched Gambit get his wings clipped and Beast vainly try to insert a modicum of reason into the situation. They had Aronthol stumped a little - with good reason - but he still had his goal focused. He still knew who he was really looking for. No reason then, not to give the man what he wanted and let the chips fall where they might. 

With supreme confidence, he stepped forward, shouldering his way through the ring of men surrounding the dais and announced himself. Beast looked back in shock. Aronthol stood. Gambit responded a little slower, looking shocky and pale, wrists held close to his chest. He waited for all the principle players to recognize him before pulling back his lips in a menacing grin. 

"Liked your place in Kansas better. This one reeks of puke and shit."

"Kansas - - ?" McCoy stuttered, looking from Creed to Aronthol and back again. The Wizard stalked past him, close enough that his robes brushed blue fur. "Where is it?"

Creed's grin widened. "Where you ain't gonna get yer hands on it. Not less I want you to."

Aronthol's eyes seemed almost to glow in agitation. The silence in the room was deathly. The Wizard's men had no idea what was expected of them. Afraid to move, afraid to speak - damned surprised than a man in their garb, who had come in with their numbers was confronting their master in such a belligerent fashion. 

"You dare - ?" Aronthol was almost sputtering in indignation. He lifted a hand as if he might strike Creed down like he had stuck down Gambit. Creed tensed, figuring if he dodged he would only incite the warriors around him into action and then have them to contend with on the one side and the wizard on the other. Hell, he might even be able to get out of here relatively unscathed, but that wouldn't solve his problem of getting out of this world. For that, he needed the Wizard - or at least the wizard's knowledge. So until he found someone else who could tell him what he needed to know, Aronthol had to be played. 

"Yeah I dare, old man." He sneered. "You screwed me over and NOBODY screws over Sabortooth. You want that orb, you damn well better deal with me."

Aronthol hesitated. He was realizing that if he did strike Creed down, then he might never get his hands on the orb he had gone to so much trouble to get. He was also realizing that confronting Creed here, in front of his men, was causing him to loose face. Creed loved it. He savored the expression of comprehension that crossed Aronthol's face as he realized he was between a rock and a hard place. With a snarl, the Wizard waved a hand about the room. 

"Out! All of you. Take him - " he pointed at McCoy. "- to the west tower. Him -" this time he stabbed a finger at Lebeau. " - put with the dogs."

Creed grinned. Gambit came out of his shock too late to avoid the hands that grasped at him, caught him and man handled him towards the cages lining the chamber. A half dozen slavering, growling dogs rushed the bars and the men beat them back before unlocking the door and thrusting Lebeau inside. He went down to his knees in straw and dogshit, and the pack swarmed over him. Creed would have liked to stay and watch, but Aronthol had whirled and was stalking towards an entrance hidden in the black drapery behind the throne. He paused and impatiently beckoned Creed to follow. 

With a last regretful look at the kennel cage and the frenzy within, he sauntered after Aronthol. There was a long stone hall behind the curtain. Thirty feet and no windows, no doors, just dark walls and a floor that was nothing more than a rusting metal grate over something fetid and moldy smelling. Smelled like sewage. Creed was used to some pretty repulsive things, but one of the drawbacks of his superior sense of smell was an aversion to this degree of foulness. He wrinkled his nose, lips pulling back in distaste reflexively. There was a door at the end of the corridor. Aronthol opened it and disappeared within without waiting for Creed. He left the portal open. 

For this place, it was a lavish room. Rich tapestries lined two walls, the other sported a window with dark glass panes, the fourth a book shelf. There was a desk, immaculately kept, and a thick sofa. There were two doors leading out in addition to the one opening into the throne room corridor. Aronthol sat behind the desk, staring at Creed impassively. He had retrieved his composure. He was back to being the all powerful wizard and warlord. Creed wasn't impressed. He strolled to the book shelf, carelessly running a sharp nailed finger along the spines of what were probably priceless volumes. A thin scratch marred the gilded spines. 

"You oughtta clean this dump up." He suggested. "Smell turns even my stomach."

"Where is the orb?"

"Safe."

"I paid you for that orb."

"Yeah. Then you thought you'd pull a fast one on me and you lost it again."

"Do you realize what you risk in angering me?"

Creed lifted a thick, blonde brow. "You don't scare me. Go ahead, waste me if ya can - which I doubt you're able - and then you'll never find your precious little orb. You want that back, then you're gonna do whatever it is you do and send me back home."

"To do that, I need the orb, you fool." The wizard slammed his palms on the desktop. 

"Yeah, right. You know, I betcha you ain't the only one around here who knows how to get me back. I could just waste you here and now and find somebody else."

"I should have known better than to entrust a mission of such importance to a common thug." Aronthol spat.

"I ain't common." Creed was hardly offended. He was amused and excited. A blood lust heated his veins. It would feel so good to rip into this arrogant old bastard. To feel his lifeblood spurting over his hands. Aronthol must have seen it in his face, because he rose defensively, hands outstretched. 

Creed snarled and leapt. He made it half way across the desk before he slammed into a force that radiated heat. He rebounded, Aronthol staggered a step backwards as though the impact on the shield had jarred him. Then he gathered his bearings and spoke a line of gibberish. The heat pushed outwards, driving Creed backwards.

"Fool." the wizard cried. "If you will not see reason on your own, I will strive to teach it to you." 

The skin on Creed's face seemed to blister. His eyes felt like they were boiling. The pain, he could endure, he'd endured far, far worse, but the forcesheild that accompanied the heat drove him step by step backwards. At the open doorway into the corridor, he decided enough was enough. Time to make a retreat and gather his resources. He could come at the old man some other time. 

"You can't teach me nothin'." he snarled, before turning and sprinting into the corridor. His feet came down on nothing. His body twisted, trying to compensate for a floor that was no longer there. The grate was gone, dropped away and below it was darkness and stench. He fell, groping for handholds. A good ways down and he hit water. It was not deep enough to make the impact painless. He plunged down ad hit rock bottom and came up covered with tainted water. He howled his outrage, hesitating not at all before leaping up, trying vainly to secure a handhold in which to climb up and out of this pit. There were none. The sound of rusted metal scraping against rusted metal signaled the grate being closed. 

"You lousy, cheatin' little fuck!!" he screamed up, then followed the epitaph with a string of curses. For a moment after the last echoes of his rage had passed, silence reigned. Then Aronthol's voice drifted down.

"You'll find the tunnels to be quite unpleasant and quite inescapable. When your attitude has changed, if you live that long, then perhaps we might talk again."

"Fuck you." Creed cried, but by then Aronthol was gone and there was nothing but the smell and the sound of rodents scampering and scraping along the edges of the thigh high water to keep him company.

* * * * 

After a night and a day and an evening drifting back into night again, Logan was starting to feel the need for sleep. He ignored the niggling little plea and pushed on. There were things that needed seeing to. Situations that needed correcting, if that was possible. Dead that cried out for burying, if that was the case. He hoped it wasn't, but in the back of his mind, death was always a possibility. He had seen so much death in his long life, had so many friends and comrades die, while he lived on and on, that it hardly surprised him anymore. But that toughening of the mind hardly stopped the worry and it hardly ever diminished the grief.

Kuthal jogged at his side, just as quiet as he was. She was a born hunter who had never left the forest. He was a born predator that left and came back and repeated the process more times than he cared to remember. They had given him a buckskin shirt. A man's shirt that was too long in the arms and too tight across the shoulders and chest. He didn't ask where they'd gotten it. Didn't care to know if it was booty from the dead or leftovers from some woman's husband or brother or son. Anyway you looked at it, the man who had once owned it was no longer living in the village. The elder, Bren, had offered him a knife to protect himself. He had turned it down. They had all lifted brows and exchanged looks at that, thinking him a fool, or a man with a death wish. The old one, Rakeena, already thought that of him. 

They covered ground faster this time than before. Unburdened, he needed no rests. He hardly needed Kuthal's services as a guide. Once Logan had traveled a path, he never forgot it. A deer darted across the game trail they were following, terrified brown eyes darting at them in surprise and terror, and changing its course mid-leap to run away from them. They froze, the both of them, each knowing that had been no normal action of a deer grazing in the forest. Something noisier than the deer crashed through brush and bramble. A human figure staggered out onto the path, attention fixed on the fleeing haunches of the deer. Foam and bloody saliva dripped from a gaping mouth. The skin was riddled with boils and grim filled scratches. Clothing was almost gone, torn off, rotted off, pulled off in the man-beast's attempts to get at irritations. 

Kuthal drew in her breath softly beside Logan. She nocked an arrow and sighted on the creature poised before them. The mad eyes noticed the movement. The face turned towards them, and the mouth widened in a inarticulate cry of senseless rage. Beneath the dirt, the filth and the derangement, it was the face of a boy. Sixteen perhaps, younger maybe. 

Kuthal loosed the arrow. It flew true, and before the boy had taken a step towards them, the shaft embedded itself in his eye. He crumpled. Kuthal remained unmoving, bow still extended, empty fingers still trembling by her jaw. Her breathing was shallow and harsh. There was a hint of moisture at the corner of her eye. 

"That was a kid." Logan said softly. 

"I know." She answered. "I knew him once."

She lowered the bow. He stared at her, wondering if he ought to be appalled. Then, as his nose picked up the stench of sickness radiating from the body, figuring that no, she had done what needed to be done. He would have done the same. 

"Who was he?"

"Kyrkal. He was my sister's son."

"God, woman." He whispered. "I'm sorry."

"Don't be. He's better off." She wiped the back of one hand across her eyes and started to walk. 

"What the hell is going on here?" he was overdue for answers. "What was wrong with that boy?"

"You don't know?" She almost laughed, the sobered, shrugging. "The sickness. The plague. Aronthol's revenge against the world. He says it's retribution for those that refuse to worship him. He says that his is a God-given right to lord it over the rest of us. I suppose he's right. The dark gods favor him. They give him and his immunity from the sickness. The sickness must be godsent, because the only men that are not affected are the priests of Kashar up in the mountains, but they never come down among us normal folk. To get their benediction you have to make a pilgrimage up the slopes of Wintervag mountain and give your life over to them. Those they accept never come down. 

"Wonderful choice, huh? Slaves to Aronthol or servants to the god of Kashar. Those of us who chose neither live out here."

"Only women? Where are your menfolk?"

She turned hollow eyes back at him and laughed. "There are no menfolk. The sickness takes any man who doesn't get benediction from Kashar or Aronthol. Once a boy reaches puberty, its not long before the sickness takes him. There's nothing to be done. No cure. All you can do is watch them turn into animals before your eyes. Worse than animals, because even animals have the sense to take care of themselves, not to just blindly kill whatever stands in its path. Women aren't affected. Mostly. A few here and there. Just as a few men here and there don't fall to the sickness. I guess you must be one of those men."

"Guess so. So if you don't have menfolk, then where did all the children I saw come from?"

"Where do you think we come from? Most of the women in our village have escaped from slavery of one sort or another. Most of us would rather take our chances in the forest with the Plaugers than serve Aronthol or his lot. The life of a woman in the Temple isn't much better. The men there have a limited view of a woman's place. Most of us in the village don't look fondly on a life of servitude, to god or wizard."

"I can understand that."

"Of the women that come to us, most are escaped from Osval or some other of Aronthol's holdings. A fair number are pregnant. We hope for girl children, but the fates are not always kind. The boys - - we love them while we can. But when the sickness falls upon them, there is nothing to do but turn them out or kill them. Sometimes we can't do the latter, although it would be kinder. We leave the decision up to the mother."

"Hard life."

She looked at him as if she didn't know there was anything else. In this world, he guessed there wasn't. He couldn't think of anything to say after that. Kuthal didn't seem to want to talk further. In companionable silence they continued on. It was almost dark by the time they reached the river. Kuthal brought a sort torch out from her pack and lit it by striking flint to stone. The oil soaked tip easily succumbed to flame. It served the chase the impending, pitch darkness away. 

There were bodies along the shore. Twisted, still corpses who had already fallen prey to scavengers. He walked among them while Kuthal watched the line of forest for predators. There were perhaps eight, nine dead men. Some with arrows sticking from their bodies, other with wounds inflicted by his claws. None of them were Gambit or Beast. 

"They're not here." he said. He kept his relief at bay, figuring that his friends were far from safe, wherever they were. 

"Then Aronthol has them. If they're smart they'll bow to him and receive his benediction, other wise he'll let the sickness take them. That is unless they have the same immunity that you do?"

He shook his head. "How long does it take? To get sick?"

"From the first symptoms? Three - four days. A man that's not too far gone can receive benediction and recover."

"What's this benediction?"

Kuthal shrugged, beckoning him back towards the cover of the forest. "A ceremony that takes place the first day of each full moon. All vows are renewed to Aronthol. His men distribute his benediction in the form of wafers that every man must swallow to avoid the sickness."

This place just got better and better. 

* * *

Remy had his back to the wall, one shoulder against moist, rough cut stone, the other against the bars of the kennel cage. The dogs kept their wary distance, two yards distant, watching him. Waiting for a sign of weakness that would allow them past his guard. One of their number lay dead between him and them, its thick neck broken. Its body still twitched. The dog nearest its hind legs worried at a foot with its teeth. 

Remy shook. He couldn't stop it. He wanted too. He tried to convince himself this was not the worst situation he had ever found himself in, that the dogs were sensing the weakness and soaking it up. But his wrists throbbed. Not a painful throb anymore, but more of an all invasive awareness that there was something on him, trying to work its way into him, that was foreign. It was violation of a sorts and he couldn't stand it. 

With a sort of quiet panic he worked at the bands encircling his wrists. His fingers, normally so nimble, seemed clumsy and useless now. There was no seam. There was no separation between extrinsic material and skin. It was as if the stuff had pervaded into his tendons and bones. In desperation he slammed his wrist against the wall. Pain. It hurt, just as if there were nothing between wrist and stone. Again and again he hit it and the dogs looked on curiously, ears flicking up and down in their curiosity of their new kennel mate's eccentricity. 

It began to sting and when he looked he found he had made a scratch, a shallow gouge that leaked - - oh god, oh god - - that leaked blood. Reflexively he brought it to his mouth, tasting the substance, just to make certain. Blood. His blood. He shut his eyes for a moment and cradled the wrist. 

The straw rustled. The patter of claws. The biggest of the dogs made a lunge for him. He grabbed a bar with his good hand and kicked out, catching the brute in the muzzle. The dog yelped and backed off. Blood mixed with the drool dripping from it's jaws. The others growled and nipped at it. It in turn snapped back at them and a skirmish began for dominance. It ended with the big dog still alpha and the others settling down to wait their human kennel mate out. 

They were between him and the cage door. Even if he could get to it, he wasn't sure he wanted to take his attention from the dogs long enough to worry at the lock. So he sat in his corner and waited, forcing the shock away and the numbing horror of the things on his wrists. He couldn't function as long as his body and mind rebelled against Aronthol's bonds. And he had to function. Not to in this place was death. 

The dogs lifted their heads, looking out towards the chamber. A distant, echoed howl drifted up through the grating on the floor. A low growling began in the kennels and the dogs began pacing nervously. Something splashed through water below. A heavy body pounded under the grates and soon the sound faded with distance. 

He didn't want to know. He really, really didn't want to know. He wanted to know where Rogue was. He wanted to know that Logan had gotten her to safety. He wanted Hank to reason their way out of this, if reason was possible. He wanted the damned bands off his wrists.

* * *

Rogue opened her eyes to a shadowed figure bending over her, reaching out a hand to touch her face. For a moment all she could make out was firelight behind making a silhouette of a slender form. All she could comprehend was the hand that would touch her skin and give her things of that person that she in no wise wished. 

She cried out, and slapped the hand away, scrambling up from the soft place she had been lying and up against a canvas wall. The figure backed away, startled. Rogue's eyes adjusted somewhat. A girl. A girl in a buckskin dress and beads in her hair. A place she didn't know. Her stomach threatened to rebel. It lurched and made her head spin. She did not wish to be helpless in a place so unfamiliar. With an inarticulate sound she rose, darted around the girl and practically took the tent down in her evacuation. The girl let out a cry behind her, running to the tent opening and calling out to others. Rogue didn't discern what was said. Her head was spinning to badly to take the time to listen carefully. 

People ran towards her. There was fire light all around, making the night alive with its warm orange glow. The sky above was black like a monumental spill of India ink. But in that blackness there was cover. She launched herself skyward. Vertigo assaulted her. She hovered, some thirty feet above the ground, level with the pluming foliage of several great trees that dominated a large clearing where all the fires were burning. Both hands she brought to her face, curled in her hair and pulled, trying to bring back some sense, some control over her balance, her nausea. She heard cries from below. Saw in her spinning vision dozens of dark figures scattering about the clearing line ants rushing to repair their shattered hill. It was almost laughable. She giggled, then sobbed, demented in her disorientation. 

In the fire light she saw them aiming weapons at her. Bows and arrows. She laughed the harder and tears streamed down her cheeks. They were going to shoot at her with arrows. Foolish, foolish people. Women. They were women in the darkness. And smaller forms that the older ones tried to shoo into flimsy tents. The little ones were too curious, too eaten up with desire to see the miraculous flying woman to heed matronly advice. 

There were children here. And only women with bows and arrows to defend them. Her vision grayed. Darkened at the edges and tunneled to a single narrow speck of vision. The ground came up at her. She hit hard on a shoulder - a hip and lay there, breathing. Just breathing and trying so very hard not to throw up. She heard the murmur of voices closing in on her and wondered what she had gotten herself into. 

"What is she?" A childish voice asked and was hushed by several older voices. 

"Is she a demon of the wizards? Did you see her fly?" The children could not be silenced. They never could, in the long run. 

"She fought for us." Another older voice said. "She has the strength of many men. She survived the neagrul poison."

"But she flew - -"

"Hush." Another voice said. "We promised Logan no hard would come to her and it will not."

Logan? Was Logan here? She opened her eyes and fought to focus on the forms surrounding her. Not to close, they were not that reckless, but near enough for her too see them in the wavering fire light that permeated the whole of the village. Women indeed. Women of all ages and children peeking from behind them. Half a dozen bows were still nocked, but the arrows were pointed at the ground. She took a deep breath and forced the nausea back. The dizziness receded somewhat with it. She propped herself up on one hand and sat staring at the vigilant faces surrounding her. 

"Where is this? Where are my friends?"

A middle aged woman with long braids took a step closer to her. She folded her hands nervously at her middle. "Logan has gone on a quest. He will be back. He left you in our care."

Logan had gone on a quest? What about Remy and Hank? She blinked up at the woman. "Where - - where're the others?"

"They were not as fortunate as you." The woman smiled sadly down at her. Another older woman stepped up behind the first.

"They're dead girl. As you should be, after blundering into a neagrul patch. But you're not mortal are you? Only one of Aronthol's demons can soar in the sky."

"Or an angel. Don't forget the angels, Rakeena." An old man hobbled into the circle. He leaned heavily upon a cane. His balding head was wrinkled and covered in fading tattoos.

"There ain't no such thing as angels, Ruman." the old woman snapped. "If there were we wouldn't be living here giving our young up to the plague."

Rogue couldn't take it. She rose, staggering and lurched towards the first woman. The arrows came up, the group of women seemed ready to close in on her. But the woman in braids held up a hand to stop them. 

"Dead?" Rogue cried. "You can't mean that. Where are they? Oh god, oh god, where's Remy? Show me!!" She grasped the woman's arms, and her grip must have hurt, as intent as she was. The woman only winced and spoke to her calmly.

"We don't know. That is what your friend, Logan went to find out. My name is Bren. What is yours?"

The calm insertion of pleasantries took Rogue aback. She gaped. She took account of what she was doing, laying hands on this woman, and she stepped back, dropping her arms to her sides. 

"My name's Rogue." she whispered. "And Ah wish somebody would tell me what's going on here."

There was a commotion at the darkened perimeter of the clearing. Women broke from the circle surrounding Rogue and ran that way. Figures in the darkness converged. What must have been the whole of this village came out and gathered within the confines of firelight and shadow. Rogue stood where she was, waiting, breath almost stilled in her expectation. Then she was able to make out Logan in the midst of women and children. He looked dog tired. Shoulders stooped, steps laborious and dragging. He was alone. No Remy. No Hank. Panic overwhelmed her. She pushed past the women and ran to him, catching hold of his arms, staring desperately into his dark, weary eyes. 

"Where are they, Logan? Why ain't they with you? They said - - they said Remy was - - that Remy an' Hank were dead?" She tasted salt in her mouth. Was she crying? She hadn't realized when she had started again.

"Darlin'. Darlin'." He caught hold of her shoulders, his fingers squeezing hard enough for her to feel. "Calm down. Getting hysterical ain't gonna do nobody any good."

"But - "

"No buts. Get ahold of yourself, girl. We didn't find them."

She stared at him, wide eyed, expectant, wanting him to tell her what was what - - afraid that what he might say would shatter her. "What does that mean?" she asked in a tiny voice.

"It means that as far as I know they ain't dead. And if they ain't dead, then they're probably working on getting back to us right now. Ain't neither one of them no fool."

No. Not like she was. Not like she felt. She put a hand to her eyes, trying to force her breathing calm. Trying to recall rationale. She just felt sick was all. Between the pounding in her head and the rolling of her stomach, she was having a hard time finding the level headedness that was usually second nature to her. 

A breath. Another. She looked up at Logan. "Okay, tell me what's going on here."

* * ** 

Hank was in a round stone walled room some stories up in one of the fortresses towers. There were no windows. No attempt at furnishings that might make the stark chamber more appealing. There was a cot stuffed with lice and flea infested straw. There was a chamber pot that had not been emptied from this room's last occupant. That was it. He had fleas. He felt them crawling around under his fur like militant little invaders. He hated them. How humiliating to have fleas. He could think of so many other afflictions he might rather have. Fleas were just so - - dehumanizing. 

Creed. Of all the people to see strolling into that mockery of a throne room. Victor Creed. A Victor Creed who just happened to mention Kansas. How much of a coincidence did a body need, to figure that the distortion they had passed through over Kansas and Sabortooth just happening to allude to having dealings with this wizard, Aronthol in Kansas, were not merely coincidence. Sabortooth had something Aronthol wanted. Some orb, if Hank's memory of the conversation between the two was correct. Creed and Aronthol were not, if he read his emotions correctly, the best of friends. 

Interesting. He paced the room and tried the door. It was sturdy and bound with iron. He might have been able to break it down, with effort, but he wasn't certain a jail break would work in his best interests at the moment. There was a scrape outside. A scuffle and a muted protest outside the door. A key turned in a lock. A girl came in, bearing a tray with a bowl and a picture of water. The guard outside the door groped her from behind as she stepped through the portal. She lowered her head in embarrassment. Her arms were striped with lashes and cuts in various degrees of healing. There were bruises on her face. Her eyes were leaden and hopeless. Like the faces of the people in the streets outside of this fortress. Hers hands holding the tray shook with weakness. 

Hank bounded forward, his large blue hands taking the weight from her. For the first time she looked up at him. Saw him. And recoiled slightly. He smiled at her reassuringly, but the sight of his sharp white teeth seemed to make her more frightened. Behind her the guard laughed.

"Please. I assure you I appear much more fiercesom that I really am."

The serving girl, didn't seem to hear him. Her knees gave way, and she caught at the door for support. Hank put the tray down with due haste and caught hold of the girl's arm. Her head slumped against his shoulder. She was hot. Burning with fever. The wounds on her arms were infected and filled with oozing puss. 

"Lazy girl." The guard cried. "Stand up. Get back to work or get another whipping."

Hank bared his teeth in a grin that was in no wise friendly. "She's sick, you ill-mannered simpleton. And most likely from the whipping you so casually mention. These wounds need to lanced and cared for. The fever needs to be reduced or she may well die."

"Lazy slut deserves to die." The guard, dull of eye and neanderthalish of feature spat. 

"Really? Does your master have so many that he allows you to decide which ones live and which ones die?"

The guard thought that over, the idea slowly forming in his thick head that perhaps Aronthol had not granted him that privilege. "Don't matter. Once a fevers caught, most don't survive anyway."

"Obviously you people have no clue as to how to treat so simple an ailment. Don't you have a physician here. A doctor. Someplace where medicine is dispensed?"

"Well, there's the alchemist's lab. . . "

"Ah, the perfect place. Shall we take her?"

"I can't let you out of your cell." The guard piped up. 

"But you'll be with me. We're going to the alchemist's lab. You'll be rewarded for certain for saving your master's servant's life."

"But - -"

"No buts. Come on, we're wasting time." 

Hank swung the girl up into his arms and between his wide girth and the girls legs, forced the guard out into the hall. Grumbling, the man proceeded him down a set of stairs and into another hall way. Then they began to climb again, obviously entering another tower. There was a thick door at the top of the steps. Hesitantly the guard knocked. No answer. 

He rapped again, then turned to glower at Hank. "Nobodies there. We've got to go back."

The door opened and a tall, reed thin man looked over the guard's shoulder, saw Hank and opened his mouth in a silent exclamation of surprise. 

"The alchemist, I assume." Hank shouldered past the guard, the astonished man in the doorway and into a dark, clutter filled laboratory that could have easily come directly from the pages of Mary Shelly's Frankenstien. "Is there someplace I might put this young lady?"

"But - -what? - -Who? - - Why?" The man seemed full of questions and not a coherent one in the lot. Hank looked at him levelly and with slow, careful words explained.

"This girl is fevered. She needs care. Something for the infection and the fever. You do have an assortment of medicines, I presume?"

"There are - - but not for - - nothing for common ailments. What are you?" The man followed him into the chamber, nervously wringing his hands. The guard stepped within the door and shut it, pressing his back against it, as if to keep out anyone who might witness the presence of his prisoner here. 

Hank found a table covered in scrolls and paperwork and deposited his burden there. The walls were lined with shelves, the other tables with handblown decanters, vials, tubes warming over flames, vats bubbling brew of some sort or another. The containers on the shelves along the walls held a variety of dried plants, berries, powders with labels he couldn't understand, animals preserved in yellowish liquid, jars upon jars of thin, parchment colored wafers, and various other unidentifiable substances. He went for the jars with the dried plants. Immediately saw several that he recognized and might make use of and began taking them down. The alchemist fluttered around him with great agitation.

"What are you doing? You can't bring her here. I've no time for this."

"I'm going to make something to reduce her fever as well as a poultice to take the infection out of those wounds. Could you get me a clean bowl and a pestle, please."

The Alchemist stood for a moment, looking very put out at being ordered about like a servant, then his gaze focused in on the materials Hank had gathered and his mouth opened in surprise. "You'll use the Heatherwart and the Goldpuff leaves to reduce the fever?"

"That's not what I know them as, but yes."

"And the Lambs comb for the wounds?"

"Right again."

"Are you an alchemist?"

"Sort of. The bowl and pestle if you please."

Distractedly the man went and fetched the requested materials. Hank took them and began the work of grinding the dried plants into a powder. 

"If you don't make medicine here, then what do you do?" 

"But I do make medicine. I make the wafers for the benediction."

Hank looked up at him. "Benediction? What all those wafers in the jars along the wall? What do they do?"

The alchemist looked to the guard by the door, then back to Hank and swallowed. Then in a practiced tone of explanation he quoted. "Those are wafers blessed by the wizard himself to be given to those faithful to his rule to ward off the Sickness."

It was very much a prepared speech and very much a false one by the look in the man's eyes. Hank reached for a vial of water and added a few drops to his mixture. He looked up at the guard and suggested. 

"This might very well be poisonous - - I'm not familiar with these particular herbs - - you might be better off waiting outside the door."

The man was stupid enough to fall for it. Happily he clawed the door open and retreated to the other side. 

"What is your name, my good man?"

"Festule. I'm Festule."

"Ah. Henry McCoy, Festule. Delighted to make your acquaintance. So tell me about this sickness?" He set his mixture to boiling over one of Festule's flames. 

"It's the plague. The punishment for those who do not declare allegiance to my lord Aronthol. All men who do not bow to him and receive benediction go mad with it."

"I believe I've run into some of those fellows. And you say those blessed wafers prevent it?"

Carefully Festule nodded. Hank smiled at him. 

"You know, Festule, I believe you and I have quite a lot to talk about."

* * * *

It was airborne. Hank figured that out from the statistics Festule was able to rattle off about the spread of the nasty thing. It had radiated from one coast to the other in less than four years. That had been forty years ago. It had ravaged the land ever since. Festule had not created it. He claimed Aronthol had done that. It was a plague the wizard had created with the help of the demons from the 'other side'. Whatever that meant. Hank was not certain the alchemist actually believed that. Hank certainly didn't. What he did know was that the virus primarily effected the Y chromosome. Hence the selective infection of males only. It was spurred on by the development of testosterone, leaving young children infected, by not debilitated by it. That came later as they reached puberty. Then symptoms very much like meningitis began. A swelling of the spinal chord that effected certain centers of the brain, bringing on madness. Making mindless killers of men. As if men needed an excuse to kill. The later stages of it even brought on physical deformities, skin ulceration's - blindness in cases. The life span of the infected seemed to be about six months. 

He sat looking at a bulging jar of wafers - the benediction of Aronthol and wondered at the methodology of the madman who could reduce a population to slavery by the release of such a plague. Then he laughed humorlessly, hopelessly - - reminding himself that in his own world such a madman had done much the same. Only that sickness had been targeted at mutants. 

"Every month you give these out?" he turned a wafer in his thick fingers. Festule sat across from him, staring at the flame of one of his burners. 

"Yes. It's all I do here. Make the antidote."

"But it's not an antidote if they have to take it every month. God, isn't there some permanent cure?"

"But, a permanent cure would not benefit Aronthol." Festule said bitterly. 

"No. No, I suppose it wouldn't. But do you know of one?"

The alchemist shook his head. "No. Aronthol created the virus. He created the cure."

"How long does it take to become infected?"

"Three- four days. The benediction will cure those recently infected."

"If you don't mind, I believe I shall imbibe one of these little goodies."

"But - Aronthol hasn't granted his - -" 

"What Aronthol doesn't know won't hurt him. I also need to get one to my friend down with the dogs."

"No. No. It's impossible. We could be killed." The alchemist reached out and scooped the glass jar towards him, holding it protectively against his narrow chest. 

"Ah, rather the quick death of a martyr than the slow lingering one of a rabid dog."

"But there's no way - -"

"I'll do it."

They both turned, startled at the soft voice from across the room. The serving girl whose wounds Hank had treated lay on her side on the table he had deposited her upon, looking at the two. There were bandages about her arms and salve on the lesser wounds of her face and hands. 

"I'll get it to him for the kindness you have shown me."

"My dear girl, you can barely walk." Hank reminded her gently.

"I've walked when I was sicker. No one ever did for me what you did. I'll help you."

"No, no, no, no." Festule was muttering. 

A fist pounded at the door. The abrasive voice of the guard called through the plank door. "Master Alchemist. His lord Aronthol wants to see the prisoner. Is it safe to enter?"

Hank snaked a long arm across the table and plucked two wafers from the container. Festule's eyes grew large and frightened. He seemed on the verge of complaining, but shut his mouth abruptly when the door was snatched open and the original guard with two others at his back loomed in the doorway. Hastily, Hank rose, bounded over to the girl, felt her forehead with the back on one hairy hand, then played at adjusting her bandages. He palmed her one of the wafers, bent over her head and whispered. "Thank you."

A bit of light sparkled in her eyes, and a touch of determination. He straightened at the guards insistent beckoning and meekly commanded himself into their custody. He slipped his own wafer into his mouth as they shut the door and arranged themselves about him. 

* * * *

The study smelled of smoke. Of singed fur or skin. There were no visible signs of fire. The scrolls neatly sat in their niches. The books were happily burn free on their shelves. The thick, hand-woven carpet was plush and soft under Hank's hard callused feet. The tapestries on the walls were brightly colored with an artists rendition of blood and gore. The warlord wizard seemed a little tense. 

The man sat behind his very impressive desk, his black cloak slung over the back of the chair, his shoulders and chest exaggeratedly widened by the leather and metal of his armor. Why a man would wear armor in the safety of his own fortress was beyond Hank. Unless that man did not feel secure. Hardly a surprising assumption, considering that man had set a plague of biblical proportions loose upon his world. A man like that might acquire a few enemies. 

He did not seem frightened at the moment. Merely irritated. One hoped he had not heard of his prisoner's foray into his private lab or the pilfering of the wafers. One hoped that prisoner would not join Gambit with the dogs. It would be so very hard to decipher a way out of this dilemma locked in a cage with a pack of slavering canines.

Hank smiled his meekest smile and demurely stood before Aronthol's desk. The guards hang at his back. He could feel their hands hovering over weapons behind him. His visage alarmed them. He did not know what it did for Aronthol, but the man's eyes lightened somewhat at his stance, and he lifted a hand to wave the guards away. They receded, melting out of the door, closing it softly behind them. Aronthol studied the Beast. The Beast tried not to meet the man in the eye. Big dogs never liked little dogs to stare them down. Aronthol was a very big dog here. 

"What do you know of Kansas?" The wizard finally spoke

Hank blinked and couldn't help looking up. "We're not in it?" He said hopefully. "Ummm lots of tornadoes?"

"You spoke of it, when we were - - interrupted earlier. It is familiar to you?"

"Well. Yes. Geographically."

"You are from there? From the world that Kansas exists within?"

Ah, now they got down to truth or dare. "I am. We are. Might I jump to the conclusion that you are somehow involved in our being here. In Sabortooth's presence here?"

Aronthol lifted a brow in surprise. "You know him?"

"Ah - unfortunately, yes."

"Foul man. Blasphemous man."

"Yes and yes." Hank agreed readily. "Might I inquire as to how - - "

"How I breached the boundaries between your world and mine? I am Aronthol. I have supreme power over the world."

"Yes, I'm aware - - but breaching a dimensional boarder is no small thing. I've done some study - -"

"What are you?" Aronthol cut Hank off. "That you appear as a beast and yet talk with the tongue of an educated man? They tell me you created a medicine for a slave today."

Hank hesitated, gauging the wizards temper regarding that action. The man did not seem overly agitated. Carefully Hank said. "I am a scientist. A biochemist - - or I suppose you might label me as a sort of alchemist here in this place. A doctor. As to my hirsute condition - you might say I suffer from a mutation that has created this form you see before you. There are in my world many who have similar circumstances."

The door at the back of the room opened quietly and a girl and boy slipped into the room bearing trays. On one there was a selection of tid-bits and on the other a frosted picture of what smelled like wine. Nothing was offered to Hank. The girl, no more than twelve or thirteen. Knelt by Aronthol's side, holding the tray of hors d'doevres up to her master. The boy, perhaps sixteen, poured wine and placed the glass in Aronthol's hand before kneeling on the other side of the wizard's chair. Both their faces were passive, their eyes without light. Aronthol looked upon them as he might upon dogs. He patted the girl's head absently. She didn't flinch. Neither did the boy when the wizard transferred his hand to him. Beautiful children in a world filled with ugliness. Aronthol secreted the softness, the comeliness away for his own pleasure and left the rest of his world in smoking, disease filled ruin. And then he murdered any spirit the beauty might possess. That was the deadness in those lovely children's eyes. Hank thought, that with that momentary reaction of Aronthol's, his absent acceptance of his slaves meekness, he knew more about the man than he had gleaned through a night's pondering. This was a man who craved beauty and yet created destruction. This was a man who wanted submission so badly that he wrecked the most heinous of crimes upon his world to get it. This was a man who practiced his own form of benevolence when his subjects bowed down to him and turned in a split second into a murdering madman if they did not.

Hank felt his stomach tighten in repulsion. This was not the worst or most powerful foe he had ever faced, and yet in this place, under these conditions he was an exactingly dangerous one. 

"Your world. It is a place so much more vast and wealthy than this one." Aronthol commented, distracted. "I've tired of this one and crave something new."

Hank opened his mouth. Then shut it. It occurred to him that Aronthol wished new lands to conquer. That he believed earth might be ripe for conquest. Stand in line. Of course telling him that would only incite anger - a desire to prove power and strength. 

"Why haven't you gone? Surely you're capable - since you managed to open a doorway that brought us over."

"No. That doorway opened only from your world. I can only travel across the ethereal plane in spirit form. To open the door from this side, I need the orb of Kashar. To keep the doorways open permanently, both orbs - the one from your world as well as the one the priests of Kashar protect must be joined."

"Ah - that's what Sabortooth was doing for you." Things began to make sense. He began to understand what it might take to get him and his back home. He scratched behind a hairy ear, distracted by the migration of a flea. "He's not the most trustworthy of types. He hid the orb from you?"

Aronthol steepled his fingers, smiling serenely. "He will tell me where it is. He is learning the meaning of respect this very moment."

"He's rather hard headed." Hank mentioned. 

"Hummm. You will teach Festule how to make the fever medicine. You will tutor him in other practices of Alchemy from your world. If your contributions are valuable to me, I will see to your comfort."

Hank dared not ask what would happen if they were not valuable. "And my friend? Might I ask for compassion there?"

"That depends entirely upon him. We shall see how a night in the kennels has affected his mood."

* * * * 

The odor of roasting meat permeated the village. Wild boar graced the spit, watched over by two round bellied women. In the fire pit root vegetables and nuts roasted, wrapped in layers of leaves. Flat bread baked on griddles. Children screamed in their excitement of the upcoming feast, running at play about the village. Women hummed wordless tunes as they went about their everyday chores. The sun had reached it's zenith hours ago and slowly crept towards the tree line again. 

Rogue was impatient. She wanted out of the village and on the way to forcing this warlord wizard into giving up their friends. More than once, Logan had seen her staring over the tree line, tensed, as if she might take to the sky at any moment and abandon him and this village altogether. He had advised her to patience, even though he itched to find the enemy of this land himself. He advised her to wait until they might discover more about the ways of these people - - the ways of the men they would go against, even though he might have spirited out into the forest himself and slipped unseen into the fortress of those very men, had not the plight of these women nagged at him. 

So they waited, the both of them, in the village of women, while the feast was cooked and the elders convinced themselves it was time to bare their hearts and their secrets to strangers. He might have asked Kuthal, feeling comfortable in her presence, feeling that they shared a certain confidence as fellow hunters, but she had fled to the company of her sister archers - perhaps sensing just such a thing. 

"This ain't right." Rogue said, when she stopped in her pacing of the village to stand over the comfortable niche he had found in the root of one of the old trees. They had given her native clothing to replace the ripped ones she had worn. Soft hide pants and a fringed leather shirt. She was taller than most of the women here, and filled out the clothes particularly well. A man couldn't help but notice. 

"What ain't right?" He sucked on the next to last cigarette in his pack and looked up at her. 

"All this waitin' around. Remy an' Hank might be dead for all we know and we're preparing to have supper with these folks."

"If they're dead, darlin', then there's no hurry, is there?"

She gave him a sour look. "Ah don't know how you can be so calm, Logan. Ah'm about to loose my mind."

"Years o' practice. Years o' practice. You still feelin' sick?"

"A little." she grudgingly admitted. "Just a little twinge in my stomach. Ah might even be able to eat a little something."

He nodded, taking a long drag on the cigarette and letting the silence stretch while he let the smoke fill his lungs, then blew it lazily out. Girl didn't like to admit when she was down. Another good reason for not flying off the handle. 

"There's things we need to know 'bout this wizard we're plannin' on going against, Rogue. Like how many men he's got. Like why they call him a wizard. Things that might mean the difference 'tween getting our friends back or gettin' killed."

"Ah know." she dropped her head and scuffed a toe. "It's just hard sittin' here wondering if they're all right."

She dropped down onto the root beside him. "He makes me so mad sometimes."

He lifted a black brow at the abrupt subject change. He flicked ash off to the side, not bothering to respond. Rogue wasn't looking for responses just yet. 

"You know what he did? Come strolling up to me, pretty as you please, with some other woman's lipstick marks all over him. Then looks at me like Ah'm crazy when Ah get upset about it."

"Went to a strip bar." Logan supplied and when she gaped at him, explained. "Bishop told me. Shooter girls - sometimes get a little too ambitious for the tip."

"God. You just don't get it, do you?" She covered her face with gloved hands, then tilted her head to peer out between her fingers at him. "It ain't never gonna be me, Logan. With anybody. Ah ain't ever gonna be the one leavin' lipstick on a man's face. Sometimes Ah just wanna die."

"It ain't worth dying for." He leaned forward, but didn't touch her. "There's more to livin' than a little bit of sex."

"Oh, from a man who can have it whenever he wants." Rogue said sullenly. 

Logan chuckled. "Darlin', I wish it were as easy as that. It ain't the lipstick that's botherin' you is it?"

A long silence. She looked out into the clearing at a group of children playing at tag. At a mother carrying an infant in one hand and an unstrung long bow in the other. "No. Ah guess it ain't. Granted Ah could slap him silly for walkin' up to me with it on him, but Ah guess that ain't it after all. Sometimes Ah just go through phases. Sometimes Ah just get to thinkin' about how alone Ah am and it hurts. Sometimes Ah just wonder why he keeps chasin' me, when he knows ain't nothin' ever gonna come of it - - an I get mad or Ah cry."

"So you want him to stop?"

She laughed and wiped a touch of moisture from the corner of one eye. "God no. Ah'd die. Ah guess the only thing worse than not being able to be touched is not having anybody that wants to do it."

"Darlin', I don't think you're ever gonna have that problem."

Unexpectedly she leaned against him, hugging him. He juggled the cigarette to get an arm around her shoulders. Slim shoulders to hold such a weight. Slim form to pack as much emotion as she did. 

"Anybody ever tell you how wonderful you are, Logan?" 

"I never believe them."

"I still don't care much for this waiting thing."

A young woman approached, eyes somewhat wary. Her gaze shifted nervously away from Rogue and slid onto Logan. "The elders are preparing to take feast and wish you to join them."

"It's about time." Rogue muttered under her breath. Logan cast her a warning look and rose, inclining his head to the woman. It was so infrequent that the role of mediator was thrust upon him, he found it odd being the level headed one. Twenty years ago he might not have been able to calmly sit through what seemed was going to be a ritual feast while he had comrades in danger. Age mellowed a man. Rogue had very few years under her belt. Hers was the rashness of youth, while his was generally the rashness of knowing he was the best at what he did - of figuring that his luck had held this long, it would probably see him through one more scuffle. He hadn't been fatally wrong yet. Her rashness was fueled by the fact that she was fifty times stronger than the normal man, could fly better than any bird and had the constitution of an alien super warrior. His was tempered by the patience of a predator. By the self-possession of years of studying in the orient - of living in a culture that held calmness and fortitude above all else. 

He put a hand on Rogue's arm, detaining her a moment. "Be nice, darlin'. These people are our hosts an we just might need 'em more'n you think."

She hesitated, then nodded.

Together, they followed the young woman to the elder's hut. A fire burned inside and thick candles burned in niches along the walls. The low table in the room's center had been filled with all the delectable things that had been cooking all afternoon. The smell of berry wine wafted in and out of the more heady aromas of meat and vegetables. All the women Logan had met the day before were there, as well as one, stoop shouldered old man. The old man was obviously Ruman, who they had mentioned yesterday. He was mostly bald, save for a few scrapes of hair that he kept cut close to his skull. His skin was weathered and wrinkled, and one of his eyes was clouded with blindness. He was a small man, who moved about the cramped interior of the hut with exaggerated, bird-like movements.

Bren held out her hands in welcome and ushered them in, indicating they take seats on the low bench. "It is so seldom we are able to honor guests." She said, smiling.

"Male guests who aren't riddled with the plague." Old Rakeena cackled from her seat across from Logan and Rogue. She leered across the table top. She smelled like she'd already been at the wine. 

"And what am I?" The old man settled onto the bench beside her. Rakeena sniffed disdainfully and waved a hand as if swatting a fly. "You're not a man, priest. You gave that up when you entered the service of Kashar."

"Rakeena." Bren smiled sternly at the older woman, before taking her own place at the head of the table. Though younger, she was obviously senior here. "We all have questions to ask of each other. Let them wait until after we have partaken of this fine meal."

Logan could appreciate that. It had been a good long while since he'd eaten and the smells were earthy and simple and utterly tantalizing. Manners were not a prerequisite here. Everybody simple reached out and grabbed what they wanted. There was more than enough for all. Rogue picked at her food, stomach still a little queasy from the poison she had fallen prey to at the river. Logan filled his plate several times, and had a good deal of the sweet wine. He was still eating happily when most of the woman had sat back to digest. He felt the center of their satisfied attention. It had probably been some time since they had had a man to feed. He pushed the plate away finally and let them fill his carved wooden goblet with more wine. Rogue sat beside him, sipping at hers daintily, waiting for his move.

With out more ado, he made it. "How long has this Wizard - - Aronthol lorded it over these lands?"

Bren exchanged looks with her fellow elders, then blew out a gust of breath as though preparing herself for a long night. "Since I was a little girl. Rakeena is the only one here who remembers a time when the land was not cursed with the Sickness, when there was no warlord. He came out of nowhere. With no warning. With him came hordes of warriors - like no warriors we had ever known. We were farmers, hunters - not soldiers and there was little our cities could do to hold his forces off. He took them, one by one until he held the centers of power in our lands. But that was not enough. He wanted to be worshipped by all. By every dirt poor farmer and every backwoods hunter. He wanted to replace Kashar as our god and like fools we refused him that most sacred place in our hearts. So he called upon his dark gods and he released the Sickness. He sent his minions out to spread word that any who did not pledge their faith and their loyalty to Aronthol would become as the basest beast. And they did. Not all at once, of course, but within a few years, every man who did not kneel before one of Aronthol's flunkies was struck down with the Sickness. My father and brothers died of it. But not before they killed my mother and along with the other men of my village who had not bowed to the wizard, they burned everything that we had ever worked for. "

"Why just the men?" Rogue asked. "Don't this Aronthol need the loyalty of women?"

The women about the table looked at Rogue oddly. Rakeena tightened her lips and spat. "To him and his brethren women are nothing more than broodmares to be used and discarded when they no longer perform."

"Charming bunch. No offense, but he's a man. Why don't he have this Sickness?"

The old man, Ruman, smiled. "Ah, but not every man is stricken. Perhaps one out of a thousand is spared. I was blessed enough to be one of those men. Perhaps it was the hand of Kashar. I was devote in my duties to Him for many years."

"You were a priest? Why'd you leave the service?" Logan asked.

"I - - had a division of faith. My brothers in the temple of Kashar are strict in their worship and their duties. They have to be, cloistered as they are in the most desolate region of the mountains, with the elements cursing them from one side and Aronthol always testing them from the other."

"They don't bow down to him?"

"They bow to no one but Kashar himself."

"Then why ain't they sick?"

"The hand of God protects them." Ruman said with complete faith. 

"Which brings us back to why you left?" Rogue reminded him.

"As I said they are strict. There are those that make the hard trek to the temple for aide. Those that are willing to give up their earthly lives and devote their souls - their faith to Kashar are taken in. These initiates never see the outside world again. Those that are not willing to sacrifice all that they were - - those folks are turned away. I saw one too many child turned away - to die on the snowy paths. Never to be found because the snow never thaws. And all because they did not wish to sacrifice what I sacrificed when my father took me to the temple."

"What was that?" Rogue asked. Logan didn't want to know. He had enough of a feeling as is. Rakeena blurted it out anyway.

"His balls, girlie. There ain't been a full man in the service of Kashar since the dawn of time." She cackled as though it were hilarious to her. Ruman sipped his wine, a neutral expression on his wrinkled visage. 

"Well," Rogue said, blushing. "That's - that's a real shame, but we've sorta gotten off track here. What we need to know about is this Aronthol and where's he's likely taken our friends."

"You're a hard headed girl, I told you they're likely dead." The old woman snapped.

"And you're a mean spirited old biddy. And Ah don't believe it."

So much for being nice. Logan rolled his eyes and looked to Bren for rational answers. "How far is this fortress of his?"

"When they raid us they travel the river. By land it is perhaps three days travel. But, it is insane to think you can take from him what he has taken. He is too powerful."

"We got our ways." Logan assured her. "How many men does he have there?"

"Osval is his central seat of power. At any given time, perhaps a thousand troops. As though he needs them with the Sickness he holds over our heads."

"A thousand?" Rogue looked at Logan, a tiny bit of worry entering her eyes. 

"We don't necessarily have ta fight 'em. Just slip around them."

"You're better at slippin' than Ah am." She admitted. 

He needed to know the layout of that fortress. Of the lands around it. He supposed someone here might be familiar enough with the lands around Osval to give it. But a little reconnaissance wouldn't hurt. Three days travel. But not as the crow flew. 

"Rogue, Darlin', there is something you can do right now."

* * * *

Remy and the dogs had come to a certain understanding. They did not attack him if he didn't move from his niche in the corner and he refrained from hitting, kicking or otherwise maiming tender snouts or not so tender muscled canine bodies. Almost he managed to doze, while the pack lay in heaps about the kennel, ears twitching and tails occasionally thumping to the rhythm of dog dreams. The area about the cage door seemed their favorite. The majority of the dogs lay blocking any path to it. An irritation that rubbed almost as sorely as the runebonds about his wrists. He had already eyeballed the lock from across the kennel and ascertained that opening it would be too easy. Not with a half dozen dogs tearing at his back, however. 

How many hours had drifted by since he had been imprisoned here? A dozen? More? More, he thought. It had been hard to keep track initially when his rationale had been swallowed by panic over the runebonds. He knew he was tired, knew his body wanted more relaxation than it was getting crouched in perpetual wariness at the mercy of the dogs. His head hurt. Pounded mercilessly and sharply behind his eyes. His nose was running, when it wasn't stopped up. Allergies had never plagued him before, but the dog hair, dust, mold and whatever other noxious spores were floating around the kennel were getting to him. He was cold and fleas and other nasty little parasites living in the straw were energetically plaguing him. The pure moroseness of his mood was worsening by the moment.

He hardly moved when the girl slipped into the empty throne room. She was a slip of a thing, dirty and used looking, her steps shaking and weak, as if she was half starved. She probably was, considering this place and the state of the people living outside it. He tilted his head just a little to watch her furtive movements around the wall of the room. The dogs twitched, one or two opening black eyes and growling. He thought she might be heading for the main doors, since she had entered through a narrow, plain one at the back of the room, but she passed that. Beyond those doors were only the kennels lining the south walls. 

She came closer and a few dogs lifted their heads, ears flattened. Almost to the bars of the cage they let her come before a chorus of barks broke through the silence and the whole of the pack rushed the bars. Unfortunately Remy's corner was at that end of the kennel. They practically climbed over him in their efforts to get at the girl though the bars. He kicked and pummeled at them, driving them away from him. A yelp or two. A gash on the side of his palm from sharp canine teeth and they remembered his presence and warily kept their distance. The girl pressed against the wall and the bars of the kennel, her narrow shoulders touching Remy's back through the grate. One dirty hand slipped through the bars over his shoulder and dropped something into his lap. A wafer. A yellowish wafer about the size of a quarter. 

"What's dis?" he hissed, suspicious.

"For you. Swallow it."

He half laughed. "You must be kiddin'?" He was almost tempted to toss it back at her, but her eyes were wide and terrified and something in them stalled him. Made him reassess his estimation that she was here on a mission for Aronthol.

"Why?"

"It's benediction." she whispered desperately. 

The dogs, which had been growling and barking at her abruptly turned their attention to the wall at the back of the room, where the door behind Aronthol's throne was. The girl's eyes panned that way too.

"He sent it." she blurted out. "The furry man." Then she was scurrying for the main doors, tugging at them desperately and slipping out even as the door at the back of the room opened. 

The dogs changed the tenor of their barking, yipping now in excitement, not aggression at the procession that marched from behind the throne. Guards in armor. Six of them. The imposing, elegantly cloaked figure of the Wizard behind them. Two children in the garb of servants flanking him. The children went to stand by the bone throne. The guards moved aside and let Aronthol stride before them towards the kennels. 

Ah, Remy was about to have an audience. He surreptitiously popped the wafer into his mouth and relaxed back against the bars, resting his arms across his knees. He closed his eyes to mere slips and feigned a state of dozing. Between his lashes he saw the wizard come to a stop before the bars of the kennel. The dogs were pacing with a frenzy, each slavering and shoving to get closest to their master. Aronthol ignored them. His gaze rested upon his prisoner.

"Have you enjoyed your stay?" The wizard finally asked, voice low and smooth, without rancor, as if he were asking how the weather was. The calm superiority rankled. Remy opened his eyes a slit, marginally turning his head as if just noticing the man's presence.

"You say something?" The tone was just as low, but he couldn't keep the underlying snarl out of it. 

Aronthol lowered his brows, tucked his chin down as if in deep thought, but the eyes stayed on Remy. Accessing him. Gauging him. Almost, Remy wanted to slam something against the bars to jar the man's intensity. It made him nervous and intimidating stares were not a thing that usually effected him. 

"Your brutish companion has considerably more intelligence than you, it seems."

Remy sniffed. On most days he might not be ruffled by a comparison of his own and Beast's IQ's. McCoy's was off the scale. At the moment, he gathered that was not quite what Aronthol meant. 

"Yeah, he grovels better den me. He ain't got a problem showin' respect to a poser with a god complex. I do."

"What - did - you say?" Aronthol looked truly shocked. His face colored all the way up to his thinning hairline. 

"You know you heard me." It occurred to him, as the wizard looked as if he might explode from the indignity and the rage over the insult that the man was probably right about the intelligence thing. He was behaving in a particularly self-destructive manner. But, he had been through a damned irritating night and his capitulation to authority at the best of times was a grudging thing. 

Aronthol whirled and slashed an arm at the guards loitering some yards away. "Take him." he snapped, voice breaking out of calmness and crossing over into icy anger. 

He prepared himself for an attack, for a chance at the open kennel door. But they didn't open the gate. They thrust long spears through the bars, jabbing at him, razing the dogs that got in the way. He jumped back from his corner, trying to distance himself, but the cage was too narrow to escape the points. He grabbed the shaft of one spear, yanking it out of its wielders hands, but before he could fish it in, another jabbed him in the thigh. His leg buckled and the dogs, sensing weakness swarmed him. He lost hold of the spear in his efforts to fend off teeth and claws. Even in the midst of that madness, he heard the gate open and sensed the rush of human attackers. They thought they had him at a disadvantage (which they did) - they thought he would crumble under the two fold attack. He used it to his advantage. He let them wade in and push the dogs back in their efforts to lay hands on him. He caught the first one to reach up under the jaw with the heel of his hand and had the satisfaction of seeing a great deal of blood spurt as the surprised man bit the tip of his tongue off. The dogs loved that. They went into a frenzy as blood flew, fighting after the tiny chunk of flesh that was trampled underfoot. 

Of course it was a loosing situation. Five men, as many dogs and too cramped a space to move in. Movement was his best offense. He was quicker than they were. Out in the open floor he could avoid them, dogs and all. Crammed against the back wall of the kennel it was only a matter of time. 

It was a dog that got him in the end. The biggest of the brutes made a leap at him, which he fended off with one arm, but the weight of the animal slammed him backwards. One foot slipped in dogshit and in the resulting loss of balance his head cracked back against the stone wall. Sharp pain. Instant blackness tinged with dancing spots of light. He was out no more than a few moments, before he came back to himself, but by that time they had his arms twisted behind him and were dragging him out of the kennel. He didn't fight when he forced him to his knees before Aronthol. The wizard had watched the whole thing impassively. He had a slight, satisfied smirk on his face now. Remy would have loved to beat it off of him. As things were, he glared up, slightly disoriented, but very much inclined to belligerence. 

"No one in this world defies me and lives." Aronthol told him. "I AM a god. The gods of this world answer to me. Countless thousands have died painful deaths when they chose not to honor me. Who do you think you are to speak so to such as I?"

"Thousands?" Remy repeated quietly. "You're a butcher, then. A murderer and you ain't deserving of nobodies respect."

Aronthol hit him. Not a particularly solid blow, more of a off handed slap, like one might give a mouthy child. 

"You know, if you were one of those poor fools in the city outside, you would have been long dead with such an attitude."

"Yeah? Den why ain't I?"

"Because you are not one of them. You are something else and you interest me. You are from a place that interests me. If you had shown the compliance of your comrade, then you might enjoy the same comforts he now enjoys."

"You tell him you a murderer?"

Another slap. Remy glared from under long strands of bangs. 

"What you want from us?" he hissed.

Aronthol reached out and brushed the hair back. Remy shied back into the arms of the men behind him, more spooked by that than the blows. 

"Look at the men around you. Remember the faces of the folk you saw in the streets of Osval. Do you know those lovely children are two out of a thousand. Out of five thousand. Do you know how much ugliness this world holds? How much crudeness. I desire a world where beauty is the norm. Not something I have to search to the ends of the land to find. I deserve that."

Remy stared at him astonished. Not quite certain he understood what he was hearing. The man thought he was too good for the crude practicality of this world, a world whose ugliness was more than likely his making, and craved a more delicate realm? A place that interested him? Lord, he wanted to go to Remy's world. As if that world didn't already have enough megalomaniacal madmen running around. 

"You are fuckin' crazy."

Aronthol caught hold of a handful of hair, jerking Remy's head back, bending down to breath into his ear. "No. Far from it. But you WILL show me reverence, or you will die. And that would be a waste - as I said, I've a taste for beautiful things."

The breath became oppressive against his ear. He jerked out of the grip, glaring warily up at Aronthol once the wizard had straightened. He was a little more wary now, a little more uncertain of the way things stood. He thought he knew why the first passage of Aronthol's eyes over him the day before had repulsed him so much. He didn't have a feel for arguing back now. He set his jaw and concentrated on testing who had the weakest hold on him. 

"Here are the choices." Aronthol said. "In two days or so, you will begin to feel the first signs of the Sickness. Fever, loss of concentration, rash, uncontrollable emotional outbursts - - ah but you seem to suffer from those already - within a week, you'll forget who you are - everything you ever held dear. You'll become less focused than those dogs you spent the night with. You'll rip the flesh from your own limbs if you get hungry enough. The boils will fester and pop and your flesh will eventually be eaten away if you aren't killed by another Plaguer or a victim quick enough to get you before you get him. 

Now before you even get the chance to fall prey to the Sickness you are very likely to succumb to one of the inmates of your new home - the tunnels. Some are Plaguers, most are merely mad. All are less than human and find human flesh as tasty as anything else they can tear to pieces down there."

Aronthol rapped his foot twice on the grate they all stood upon. Something below him splashed and the thin sounds of scurrying could be heard. "If you choose to forestall either end, just scream through the grills. Someone may eventually hear you and bring your petition to me. If you have gone through enough of a change of attitude, then I may let you out and allow you the blessing of my benediction."

"Benediction?" He repeated the word, having heard it so recently on the lips of the slave girl. 

Aronthol smiled tightly. "Only when you pledge fealty to me."

Oh, Henri - what a very crafty beasty you are. Remy forced a smile to his lips. "I'll dance on your grave, Monsieur Massacrer, but dat be all de fealty you get from me."

Aronthol didn't slap him this time. He merely stepped back and waved a hand. One of the guards not holding Remy hurried to a wall between kennel cages and triggered a switch. With a scraping of metal one of the metal grated dropped open. 

Remy didn't fight them, when they wrestled him towards it. It was a sort of prison, and an archaic one at that. He could break from any prison, if given the chance. And at the moment he preferred the threat of the 'tunnels' to Aronthol's presence. They pushed him over the edge and he plummeted. Down into darkness. Ten feet, fifteen. He twisted, trying to anticipate the impact. Hit water at twenty and rolled with it. He came up against a cold, slimy wall and pressed his back to it, listening, letting his eyes adjust to the darkness. There was dim light from above filtering down through the grates, but not enough. It stunk to high heaven down here. But he was free of hands on him and there were no dogs watching his every move. It had to be better. 

From his right an echo of something heavy moving through water reached him. It sounded very far away, but moving fast towards him. 

"Better run." A voice wafted down from above. "They know fresh meats down there. They'll be on you in a moment."

He muttered something vile under his breath and tested the sides of the walls. Eight feet across. There was a narrow ledge on one side. He chose that over splashing through the water. He started down the left passage. It was time to find an exit to this nightmare.

* * *

Rogue took to the skies as soon as the sun topped the treetops, chasing away the utter darkness of this world's night. Sometime during the night it had rained. The ground within the stockade was muddy and the trees were frosted with mist. She had a chunk of fresh baked flatbread and a slab of cold meat from the night before's feast to break her fast and took off with the food in her hands and the bulk of the village staring up at her in awe when she defied the gravity the rest of them were subject to and soared skyward.

They had told her which way the river was, but it was hard to keep track of direction with nothing but trees, trees, trees everywhere. She knew she was off track when after half an hours flight she found not a river but a broad square of cleared land broken by neat, even rows of budding crops. A small hut with a few scattered outbuildings sat at one corner. A man and woman tended the field, but they never looked up to witness her passing. She changed direction and increased altitude. She passed another half dozen small farms before finally reaching a snaking bend of the river. Along the river the farmsteads were more frequent, but they all seemed poor, with tiny houses and dilapidated sheds. The few hamlets that perched on the shores of the river seemed little better. 

The forests began to thin and the land became more rocky and elevated. The river cut through the hills like a scythe. She understood why travel overland would be so time consuming. The canyons were treacherous and a landbound body might be forced to detour for miles to find a passable route. Then she was past that and a less densely forested land presented itself on the other side. Also far, far ahead she could see the distance grayed ridges of a true mountain range. From her vantage it might have been a hundred miles away. But closer and much more interesting she saw a city sprouting out of the forest. 

River vessels sat docked along a sprawling collection of piers and boathouses. A shanty town of sorts had sprung up along the river shore. Tents and canvas huts mostly. People and animals scurried along the muddy pathways like frantic, mindless ants. Up a rocky trail was a city surrounded by a wooden barricade. The houses were crammed together in no discernible order. The streets, viewed from above were a maze. Within the first barricade was a second one. Behind this was a fortress complete with towers and walkways with archers slits and great empty black iron kettles that sat at intervals waiting to be filled with hot oil to pour on invaders. It might be experiencing an invasion right now, for all she knew. Hundreds of men filled the courtyards. Hundreds of soldiers mixed with the brown clothed people in the streets of the city outside the fortress. The corrals behind the fortress were filled with horses. 

If this was the regiment this Wizard Aronthol always kept on hand, then he was a pessimistic man. A nervous man. If it was not, then he was a man who was gathering forces for something. 

She wanted to land, to take a closer look at this fortress, at these people, but she had promised Logan. He had made her swear, as if he didn't trust her simple assurance that she wouldn't jump the gun. She was tempted. There were so many people that she surely would go unnoticed. Just drop a question here and there. Someone was certain to have noticed a great furry blue man being brought to this place. 

"Ah promise Ah won't do anything but look." Hadn't that been the wording? Well, she could look better from ground level than way up with the clouds. Logan hadn't exactly clarified when he'd made her promise. 'Sides, what Logan didn't know, wouldn't hurt him.

There was a copse of aspen trees a ways down from the docks. The path was muddy and little used, a narrow gully littered with animal feces. Maybe a pig or sheep trail leading to a pasture upriver. She walked on the grass beside the trail to preserve her loaned boots. A small flock of sheep herded by a skinny, dirty boy rounded a bend and crowded her even further off the track. He stared at her in surprise, turning to follow her with his wide eyed stare even as she passed and continued down the trail. Not many folks must come down this path, she thought, from the way that boy was gawking at her. 

Closer to the barricaded city the trees thinned out. Cut down most likely to avoid giving potential attackers close hiding places. There were small docks all along the river where ragtag, dilapidated dinghies bobbed in the current. There was more traffic now. Folk carrying baskets or bales towards the city. Children herding animals, women walking to or from the river with clothes to wash. Soldiers. There were a lot of them. They lolled about, with no seeming task other than to harass or intimidate the common folk that were trying to go about their everyday business. No one flared back at the bullying. She saw an old man with a sack full of firewood tripped. A child's flock of geese scattered. A haggard woman cornered and manhandled. No one spoke up. The child tried to hold back frustrated tears, but that was the extent of the protest. 

The walls of the city loomed. She had climbed a path that looked down over the river. Just below the city the docks were larger. A great many long boats like the one she had seen at the river when they had helped the two women escape from the attack. More traffic than this dock usually handled, by the way they were crammed together. There was definitely an unusual gathering of forces at Osval. 

An old woman limped past her while she stared down at the river. She turned catching at the haggard woman's shoulder.

"Excuse me."

The woman flinched and turned shadowed eyes her way. They widened as she took her accoster in, then she lowered her gaze and tugged out of Rogue's grip. She wasn't as old as Rogue had first assumed from her posture and the lines about her face. She was merely used up and tired. 

"Why are there so many soldiers here? What's happening?"

"There are always soldiers here." The woman muttered, shuffling away. Rogue stepped to keep up with her.

"But so many?"

"His lordship has something or other on 'is mind." the woman said with the air of someone who cared very little about the subject. "It's not for the likes of me to know. Probably has to do with the demon he brought to court."

"Demon?"

"It's the talk of the town, it is. There's a demon in his tower, working magic for his lordship. Me sister's husband's brother's nephew saw it when they brought it into Osval. Horrible teeth and claws, a great furred animal with the posture of a man."

"Oh. A blue furred animal?"

"Aye. So the rumors go."

Rogue's breath stalled in her breast. "Was - - was this demon alone? Was there anyone else with him?"

"How should I know. I wasn't there. Leave me be. I've got work to do and can't be dallying." She waved a thin hand at Rogue, trying to shoo her away. 

Rogue's step faltered. She stopped and stood on the path leading to the open gates of the city. She couldn't enter those gates. She could not break her promise that badly. She wanted to go in, though. Badly. If Hank was in there, she could only hope Remy was as well. Just because the old woman's sister's husband's brother's nephew hadn't seen him, didn't mean anything. In a place like this a normal man would go unnoticed in the presence of one such as the Beast. 

An arm encircled her waist, pulling her a step back and up against a thick, smelly body.

"What 'ave we 'ere?" A voice leered in her ear. Another body stepped in front of her, and a third crowded her from the side. 

"By me grandmum's tits, you're a beauty." The one in front of her gaped at her in surprise. "Lookit' her, Lron. You ever seen a wench like her?"

She didn't know whether Lron was the one at her side or the one with his arm wrapped around her from behind. But the latter had moved his paw up in attempts to fondle her breast and scene or no, she was not about to allow that. She caught his wrist and squeezed. The man let out a yowl and hopped back, shaking the bruised member. She backed a step away from the other two warily.

"Y'all ain't much on manners, are ya?"

"Feisty little bitch." Lron, maybe, commented, grinning. "Did she hurt ya, Krajon?"

Krajon glared at her menacingly. "We'll see how feisty she is after we've all had a go at her."

She lifted a brow. They were garnering attention. People were staring at them as they passed. A few other soldiers were walking their way. Oh great. This was all she needed. An incident that might betray her's and Logan's presence here. 

"Okay." she said quickly. "Let's see what the three of y'all are made of. Let's go over there, alright?" She pointed to a collection of sheds filled with firewood. Her three suitors looked at each other, then at her, then as a group began hustling her in the indicated direction. She let them put hands on her arms. Somebody squeeze her behind. 

"After we've finished, we'll take her to 'is Lordship. He'll give a handsome reward for a piece like this." That was Krajon, over his injury and thinking of money. He was the first one she hit when they reached the relative privacy behind the shed. She just turned and slammed a fist into his jaw and he crumpled. The one behind her that had goosed her rear she kneed for good measure before back handing into unconsciousness. The third actually was thinking quickly enough to make a grab for her. He got his arms around her. She grabbed his hands, unhooked his grip with ridiculous ease and swung him into the back of the shed. The wood buckled. The shed trembled and she held her breath, preying that it wouldn't buckle. It held, after a moment of groaning in protest at the rough treatment. She stood for a moment, pursing her lips, brushing off invisible hand prints from her backside and breast. 

Okay, so maybe Logan had been right. Maybe it hadn't been such a great idea snooping around here. Well, no harm done, really. She doubted if these three would spread the tale of how they had been beaten up by one women. They'd keep the incident to themselves. And besides, what Logan didn't know, wouldn't hurt him. 

* * ** 

The tunnels seemed to stretch forever. It smelled like something, several something's, had died and were rotting down in here in the moisture and the chill. It was cold, and he was wet from floundering into a section of water that was chest high and rancid with floating debris. There were rats down here that made the biggest sewer rats ever to grace the alleys of New York look delicate. They were fearless, coming right up to a body that wasn't in motion. Remy wasn't one to startle at such a simple thing as a rodent, but these mother of all rats, had a predatory look in their gleaming, dark eyes that said, 'go ahead, take a rest. Close your eyes for a moment, homme, and we'll have you for lunch."

Even more unnerving were the sounds that might have been rats disturbing garbage, but might just as well have been something else. Something larger and more dangerous. He hadn't seen anything else, but he had come across the bones of past inmates of these tunnels. Bones picked cleaned and gnawed upon and split by something desperate enough to want even the marrow from a body's skeleton. 

There were no doors. Not even sealed suggestions of ones. There were grates occasionally above, letting dim light down into the tunnels, but for the most part it was like being sealed in a meandering, watery tomb. Some parts were pitch dark, honestly most of it was, but his night vision was good and he could manage to discern a little of all but the darkest sections. Those he tried to avoid. He did not care for the scratching sounds emanating from those tunnels. 

He came to an intersection that he thought he had crossed before. Turned a corner and stumbled upon the first scavenger not of rodent descent. A dark figure haunched over a pile of garbage, pawing through the refuge fervently. He stopped in that intersection, frozen, but the man -- he thought it was a man -- sensed him and the head jerked up. A cry went up, like an animal surprised over its kill. And like an animal it charged. Remy blinked and backpedaled a few steps. He let the man come at him, let him almost reach him, then slipped aside and jammed a heel into the backs of his attacker's knees. The figure went down in the ankle high water of the tunnel, but it didn't stop him. He just turned and went for Remy's legs. Remy swore and skipped out of reach, then swung a leg around and smashed his boot into the side of the man's head. Down now, but not out. The ragged, growling figure clutched his head and curled into a fetal ball. 

Another echoing howl from down one arm of the intersection. Remy's head snapped up. Which direction? The echoes made it hard to discern. There, to the right. He could make out a dark, shifting pack of bodies lumbering through the tunnels towards him. He swore softly and took off down an intersecting arm. He kept out of the water to keep from splashing, and took the first turn he reached, ran a hundred yards and into a trio of what might loosely be called men running in his direction. There was a grate overhead that allowed enough light to illuminate the stark walls of the tunnel and the creatures he had collided with. If a body could fester and still function, these were it. Their features had been ravaged by scars and boils, the stench from their bodies overwhelmed even that of the tunnel system itself. No humanity remained in their eyes. These were like the things Logan had faced at the lake. Infected with the sickness Aronthol had threatened him with. God bless Beast for sending the girl with the preventative. 

He didn't stop. They weren't stopping. They just howled the more, noisier than the dogs in the kennel. Perhaps they were sending up the cry that prey was loose in the tunnels, if they had that much reason left to them. He veered to the left, hit the curving slope of the wall and launched himself over their heads. He somersaulted, came down running and pelted down the tunnel while they were trying to come to a confused halt and change direction. 

He passed out of the light and into darkness. Stone overhead and the sound of water running through pipes. There was some type of sewage system in parts of the fortress, maybe. He heard them faintly behind him. He was running blindly now. One hand out to the side to keep contact with the wall. His fingers ran out of stone. A side passage. He took it, slowed down to keep from making noise and hoped to hell those things couldn't track by scent. 

Another twenty yards and he couldn't hear them. Maybe he had lost them. Another step and something came at him out of the darkness, arms wrapping about him and bearing him into the far wall with enough force to knock the wind from his lungs. Nails bit into his back.

Hot breath seared the side of his face. "Must be my lucky day, Lebeau."

Remy swore, when he had the breath to do so, and attempted to twist free. "Creed?" 

Creed wasn't letting go. Creed was pressing him down, with all his considerable weight atop him with very serious intentions of not letting him get leverage. 

"You havin' a good time down here, Remy?" Creed whispered. "Like the neighbors?"

"Get off." 

"What? You don't appreciate my company over a bunch of rotting zombies? I'm hurt, boy."

"You will be." Remy said, got a knee between them and managed to throw Creed off him. He rolled to his knees in the darkness. He was totally at a loss to see. He figured Sabortooth probably had the advantage there. 

"So what're you an' the furball, doin' here, Lebeau?" Casual question out of the dark.

"What're you?"

"Ain't polite to answer a question with a question. You need manners."

"Folk keep tellin' me dat." Remy muttered. "Aronthol, he knew you. So I figure, you must be at fault here somehow. None o' us asked to be here, dat's for damn sure."

"You're breakin' my heart."

"Yeah, I wish."

A cry from the darkness behind him. The sudden lumbering sound of bodies moving through the darkness. Sabortooth snarled and Remy felt, more than heard him charge towards them. Howls turned into screams. Flesh ripped and tore. Fine. Let Creed play with them. Remy pushed to his feet and moved down the hall. He couldn't deal with Creed in the absolute dark. Damnit, there had to be a grate around here somewhere. 

There, up ahead, faint light. The stone of the wall turned gray with the illumination. The ceiling overhead was riddled with the black forms of thick pipes. He paused to get his bearings. There was an intersection. He didn't think he'd passed this one before. 

Creed came down out of the dark webwork of pipes like a spider dropping in on its prey. Only he was faster than any spider and more ruthless by nature than even the most bloodthirsty arachnid. Remy almost took the brunt of the impact. Almost received the business end of those talons at the end of Creed's curled fingers, which would have ended with nothing less than a messy disemboweling. His own speed saved him. He was just a little superior in that respect. Faster and just a little bit nimbler than the predator that was Sabortooth. 

He dove forward, catching the tip of the claws on his shoulder, hearing his shirt rip. It snagged on one claw and his forward momentum was shaken. He was going down to his knees in the ankle high water of the tunnels and he did not bother to stop the descent, just went with it and turned, putting one hand out to break the fall and jamming upwards with both feet even before he saw Sabortooth coming at him from above. He caught Creed in the gut, bent his knees and propelled the man over his head and behind him. 

In a heartbeat he was up and facing into the darkness where he had thrown Creed. Nothing. Nothing, but he knew Creed was there. His fingers itched for something to charge and throw. It was a reoccurring physical blow every time he remembered he did not have that power. He spared one scathing glare at the bands circling his wrists. 

"Whatsa' matter, Remy?" Creed's voice purred out from the darkness, echoing off miles of close stone walls and ceilings. 

"Not so good without the edge, are ya? Scared yet?"

He did not bother to answer. He was angry and yes, just a little bit scared because he had the sick feeling that Creed was not the only one down here after him and that the others, those demented, feral creatures of Aronthol's, were watching and biding their time. Not to mention the damned wizard himself, who was probably amused as hell over this little skit. Damn, but he hated giving a show to his enemies. 

He took a step backwards, scanning the tunnel for a weapon. A loose pipe, anything, because fighting Creed hand to hand was a dangerous occupation, what with those claws and those teeth.

Sabortooth charged. Remy sidestepped, blocked a blow and tried to deliver one of his own, which was in turn blocked. Sabortooth got an arm around him in the process and roared into his face. He got too close a view of sharp, animalistic teeth and horrendous bad breath. He brought a knee up that Creed could not block at this range, then slammed the top of his head into the momentarily surprised face. Creed howled and the grip loosened. Remy slipped out, and kept up the attack while his opponent was at a disadvantage. A kick to the stomach, then back off. Stay out of his reach. 

Creed bent over, holding his mid-section, eyeing Remy. "There's a way outta this, you know."

"Yeah, then why're you still down here?"

Creed grinned. "Cause just gettin' outta this hell hole ain't enough, boy. It ain't gonna get me home."

Creed lowered his head, breathing hard. Remy stood there, breathing hard himself, thoughts spinning sporadically. Creed had been in cahoots with Aronthol. Creed maybe did have a clue how to get back home. God help them all, if Creed was their only hope. He took half a step forward.

"What will?"

Creed didn't even look up. He just barreled into Remy headfirst, arms spread wide to prevent escape and slammed both of them into the wall. Fool. Fool. Fool! Remy cursed himself. Creed caught his shoulders and slammed him back again into the stone. He got a knee up into Creed's crotch, but it didn't seem to phase the man. Again into the wall and this time Remy's head hit hard. Consciousness swam sickly. He lost control of his limbs. Creed growled into his face, and slapped him. A vicious backhanded blow, then paid him back for the earlier crotch shot with a knee to his groin. That sent him over the edge into blackness.

He came to on his stomach with Creed sitting on his back, in the process of strapping his wrists together behind his back. He tensed to struggle and Creed slapped a hand down on the back of his neck, claws biting into the skin of his throat.

"Don't. I ain't in the mood."

Remy took a few shuddering breaths, figured he was at a distinct disadvantage here and relaxed. Creed withdrew the hand. Gave the straps about Remy's wrists a final tug and got off. Remy rolled over and scrambled to get his back against the wall, glaring at Creed balefully. He was already starting to loose feeling in his hands. He tested the bonds and found Creed hadn't taken chances. He couldn't reach any of the straps with his fingers to loosen them. 

Creed crouched there, watching him. "Who all's here with you, Lebeau, other than the furball?"

"None o' your fuckin' business."

"Don't make sense," Creed said reasonably. "To work against each other here. Far as I can see don't nobody want that fuckin' wizard gettin' through to our world. What we both want is to get back home, right?"

Remy stared at him warily. Sabortooth playing the part of reason was a new one. There had to be a trap in it. 

"You wanna work together? Dis is a good way o' showin' it."

"Be honest, Lebeau. You don't trust me. I don't trust you. Both o' us got good reasons. I'm just gonna enter this partnership from a position of power. Wouldn't you, if given the chance?"

"Partnership! Ha, dat'll be the day."

Creed lunged forward, catching Remy's shirt and dragging him face to face with him. "Listen, you little puke. I don't wanna stay here. I wanna get home. I wanna see this Aronthol burn. If any of those options don't sit well with you, then maybe we don't have common ground. Maybe I should just gut you here and now and get you outta my way."

He had a point. Several of them in fact. "Okay. Okay. Maybe you ain't all wrong dere. How we gonna get outta dese tunnels, much less home?"

Creed let him go. Sat back and smiled. "All we got to do to get outta the tunnels is make nice to Aronthol."

"Right. Like he gonna just open the door and let us out when we say, 'sorry, homme.'"

"Oh, you'll be more convincing than that. Use that charm, Lebeau. He's already got a hard on for you. He'll let you out to apologize."

Remy glared at him. "You charm him."

"Oh, I got something else he wants. The key outta this world."

"What key?"

"Somethin' I got for him back on our world. An orb that he thinks will open the doorway between worlds."

"Orb? Oh, was dat what he was askin' about when you made your grand entrance?"

"Oh yeah. He wants it bad."

"So why you need me? Why should you care whether we're stuck here or not?""

Creed leaned close again, put an arm about Remy's shoulders and pulled him closer. "If I give him this orb, who's to say he won't screw me. I'd screw him. So once he's got it and he lets spill how it works, then we need to get it back. One thing you do excel at, Lebeau, is thievin'."

* * * *

Lebeau was having a change of heart. Creed could feel it in the tenseness of his arm and the break in his step. Figured the Cajun couldn't be trusted to live up to his part in a bargain, which was why Creed had him on a leash. Even then, he didn't trust him. Gambit had enough twists and turns to make an eel envious. Course, it didn't mean Creed couldn't handle him. It just meant he wasn't taking chances. 

He transferred a hand to the back of Lebeau's neck, nails biting into flesh. "Don't back out on me, boy. You know I ain't got a problem with rippin' out your throat."

Gambit didn't respond. Didn't do anything but glare ahead into the checkered light coming down from the grill above. Creed shook him once for good measure, then pushed him forward into the light. They were under Aronthol's throne room. Creed had been here enough to know the smell. Lurking about, listening for some scrap of conversation that might give him the upper hand. The scent of the dogs was a vague invasion into the putrid smell of the tunnels. 

He yelled the wizard's name up through the grate. It echoed wildly down the tunnels. Yelled it again and again, until the dogs in the kennels were howling in agitation. 

"Sound familiar?" He prodded Gambit with an elbow and the Cajun finally turned his faintly glowing red eyes his way. 

"So does dat." He indicated the tunnel from which they had come with a casual jerk of his chin. Creed whirled, cursing himself for paying more attention to what was upside, than what was down here with them. It was a set of the quiet ones, not the rotting sick creatures that a body could hear coming from a mile away. Those were little more than animals, the others had mad eyes and the cunning intelligence of psychotic killers. But they weren't as good at it as he was. 

He shoved Gambit so hard he staggered back against the slimy wall and stabbed a claw tipped finger at him. "Stay!"

He met the charge. They had crude weapons. Rusty, jagged pipes that they swung with all the expertise of a five year old with a gun. They were as likely to brain each other as him. He lunged past the one in the front with nothing more serious than a rake of nails across chest, and slammed into the other one very much like his namesake might pounce on a hapless deer. The man's neck was snapped before he hit the ground with Creed's weight atop him. The other got a swipe in with the rusty end of the pipe. It bounced off the leather of Creed's stolen armor and tore into his arm. God, the pain felt good. It made his vision tunnel and his senses heighten. He turned on the madman and took another blow to the chest, which he ignored. Went straight past the man's flailing arms and ripped into his throat with his sharp teeth. Hot, pungent blood filled his mouth. Tendons and sinew caught in his teeth. No more struggles. Sensitized hearing picked up a sound. 

His head snapped up, eyes as wild as those of the mad men who had tried to take him. Lebeau looked like he wanted to bolt. He took a step backwards and Creed tensed, ready to pounce. Then Lebeau stopped. Stood there half in the water of the tunnel and watched Creed watching him. 

"Go ahead, make a run for it." Creed growled, his vision kept narrowing, his fingers itched to rip into more flesh.

"Get a grip, Victor." Lebeau suggested calmly. "Thought you wanted outta here - - not to join de club."

"Shut the fuck up!"

Gambit shrugged. Very casual, very composed, nothing to encourage the killing frenzy. Creed took a breath. Curled his lips and looked down at the bodies sprawled beneath him. Blood and gore spotted his nice leather armor. He sucked the blood from his fingers. 

Clapping. Singular, rhythmic clapping. Creed's eyes snapped upward. His whole body tensed, searching for opposition. It came from above. A shadowed figure mostly hidden by the grate. 

"Very entertaining." Aronthol's voice drifted down. "You're more of a predator then they are. How does it feel to be king of your little world down there?"

"Being king don't interest me, old man."

"Oh, I think that's an exaggeration. You're a man that likes power."

"No. I'm a man that likes the good life. I ain't gotta have the world bowin' to me."

He heard Lebeau sniff disdainfully, got up and sauntered over. "You got your point across. I'm willin' to talk. I even brought you a token of good faith." He grabbed Lebeau's arm and dragged him a step forward. "I convinced him what a mistake it is to show a man o' your importance disrespect."

Lebeau muttered something vile under his breath. It was a foul enough curse to make Creed smile in appreciation. 

"Is that so?"

It was not necessarily a question meant for Creed. Gambit didn't answer, too busy grinding his teeth and glaring at the opposite wall. Creed squeezed his arm. "Answer the man, Remy."

The Cajun glared at him, took a breath and shifted his gaze upwards. "Yeah. Whole change o' heart." It was spoken barley above a whisper but Aronthol caught it. He laughed. He made a motion and somebody else triggered the grate release. 

Oh yes, it was going to be a productive day after all.


End file.
